


The Heart of the North

by StarlightAsteria



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: All the Northern Lords, Feminist Themes, Lyanna Mormont is her usual badass self, Nymeria's dire-beast pack, SanSan-centric season 7, Sansa is the Lady of Winterfell, The Heart of the North, There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, season 7
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-12-05 02:07:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11568102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarlightAsteria/pseuds/StarlightAsteria
Summary: her hair is fire, her heart is iceher words are cold, her flesh is warma rose in snow, waiting to be reborn;now she knows how to throw the diceSansa Stark is the Heart of the North.my take on how I hope season 7 will go.





	1. Châtelaine

**Author's Note:**

> Another WIP... oops. However, I really could not get this out of my head. 
> 
> This is my first ASOIAF/GOT fic, so please let me know what you think of it - reviews/kudos are love. 
> 
> Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon plans, Arya returns and Sansa falls.

Part One: Châtelaine

 

* * *

 

 

_her hair is fire, her heart is ice_

_her words are cold, her flesh is warm_

_a rose in snow, waiting to be reborn;_

_now she knows how to throw the dice_

 

* * *

 

 

Winterfell is no longer the home she wishes it was; it has become far too painful ( _memories, memories linger in the shadows of her mind, in the silent woods and silent crypts, the North remembers)_ but she is Sansa Stark, Lady of Winterfell, and she knows her duty. So she oversees the running of the castle, the stockpiling of grain and meat and weaponry, she spends her time walking the forest paths with Brienne as her shadow, in the throne room with Jon and the other Northern Lords, plays the part of the châtelaine perfectly, her girlhood training coming back to her easily. 

 

Jon is a good man and a good king, and the North respects him and follows him, but he has no inkling of politics; he has learned nothing from the deaths of the rest of their family, Sansa thinks, and she is terrified that lives will be lost because of that. He doesn’t listen to her; still thinks of her as the naive child she was before she learned how to survive tragedy, how to play the game. It frustrates her; of course it does - because doesn’t he realise; the only reason he is King and she is not Queen is because she stepped aside? She wants to be appreciated, not feel like a pawn all over again. 

 

The Northern Lords aren’t like Jon; they all know what she did to Ramsey; these old men, these experienced warlords understand that she survived the South, that she is responsible for the alliance with the Vale; they know not to underestimate her. 

 

So she rides out with Lyanna Mormont in the mornings, and she talks to the Lords as she makes sure they are comfortably ensconced next to the great fireplaces with a flagon of ale in the evenings; so that Jon might command Northern loyalty on the battlefield, but she commands their loyalty in their hearts; she becomes the lynchpin she always has been. 

 

She grows to greatly enjoy Lyanna’s company; the Lady of Bear Island’s resemblance to Arya makes Sansa’s heart ache sometimes, but the two come to understand each other, and seek each other out, surrounded as they mostly are by men.

 

And so weeks pass, and winter comes. 

 

And with winter comes another war.

 

Sansa knows it’s only a matter of time before the last act is played out; already the pieces have begun to move. The Others march on the Wall; Cersei and Daenerys are to the South. If they can hold out long enough for the Lannisters to fall to the dragons, the North has a chance for an alliance with the Dragon Queen. Sansa has bent the knee before; to Cersei, to Joffrey, to Ramsey - she will never do so again; and if she offers her bannermen a viable solution - alliance - the North will follow her. 

 

And so Winterfell stands as the days grow darker and the snows fall and fall and fall and the great hearth fires roar and roar. Winterfell in the North, and fire in the dark. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

And one day, in high winter, when the leaves of the heart trees are as blood on the snow, when Sansa and Lyanna are out on their customary morning ride without their sworn shields, guards a respectable distance behind; a fierce dawn gallop to get their blood up, a piece of calm before the chaos of the day, Sansa sees, starkly silhouetted against the grey winter sky, a man on a horse, a shadow against the white snow, as though conjured up by a mage, because she must be going mad; insane, this is a trick played by her weary heart - because she _recognises_ that silhouette. 

 

“Gods,” Sansa whispers, and Lyanna looks strangely at her. 

 

She’s barely aware that she’s urged her surefooted grey forwards again, back into a smooth, ground-eating canter,  barely aware of Lyanna’s shout of surprise carried to her by the harsh Northern wind, because the only thing that matters is -

 

He doesn’t see her until she brings her grey to a skidded halt, half out of his mind with fatigue and cold and he stiffens in surprise, and his great black warhorse halts too, and they simply look at each other; let their eyes drink their fill. He is still as imposing as she remembers, but he looks careworn, she realises, and something deep within her aches in response. 

 

They dismount in silence, unable to take their eyes off each other, and as their boots touch the ground the spell breaks; Sansa goes to burrow into the arms that open naturally, instinctively, for her. She presses her cheek against the cold leather of his breastplate and glories in the feel of his arms around her; one hand is splayed gently across the curve of her back and the other has come to tangle in her hair and his warmth sinks deep into her bones and she feels alive again ( _gods, has it truly been so long)._

 

“Oh Sandor,” she sighs, and his arms tighten around her.

 

“Little bird,” his voice rumbles, and her entire being shivers in delight. 

 

“You’re alive, you’re alive,” she chants. 

 

“As are you, little bird,” he replies gently, and she can _feel_ his relief.

 

She lifts her head to look up at his face, bringing her dainty hands to his cheeks, and he inhales shakily. “Sansa…” it is a broken whisper, and her answering smile is as blindingly radiant as a clear northern sky. 

 

“Sansa!” Lyanna calls as she rides up to them, swiftly followed by the detail of guards. Sansa dazedly pulls away from him _(she doesn’t want to; she never wants to be without his touch ever again)_ and turns to face the younger girl. 

 

“Lyanna, this is my sworn shield, Sandor Clegane.” Her voice is soft, but even and carries a sharp hint of steel; she will not be gainsaid. They have not formally discussed it, but Sandor squeezes her hand gently and she knows all is well. 

 

Lyanna’s face crinkles in confusion. “I thought Brienne was.”

 

“Sandor was first; we were separated at the Battle of the Blackwater.” 

 

Lyanna frowns. “You’re the Hound.”

 

“I was called that,” Sandor agrees gruffly. 

 

“Lyanna, in King’s Landing, he was the only one who protected me. Everyone else - ” she stumbles over her words “- laughed and did nothing. Sandor took care of me, saved my life, when others beat me and humiliated me and wanted to rape me. He is _mine._ He is under my protection, and I will honour him for his service to me.”

 

“Hurt her, Clegane, and I will gut you from groin to brain and feed your remains to the bears.”

 

“I take my words seriously, Lyanna of Bear Island.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Jon and Brienne are furious, but Sansa will not be moved. 

 

“He is _mine._ ” She snarls, and all those watching at that moment feel the last of their doubts melt away ( _she is the true Lady of Winterfell, and the North will follow her for love of her)_. “Where were you when the Lannisters beat me and made me watch them put Father’s head on a spike? When I was a hostage, sold in marriage like a broodmare to Joffrey and then the Imp? When the Kingsguard ripped my dress off in the middle of the court and beat me with fists and sword? When Baelish sold me to Ramsey Bolton for him to tie down and rape?”

 

“Sansa - ”

 

“You were a thousand miles to the North! You did not write to Mother and Robb and ask for them to get me back - no, you forgot me, you left me in King’s Landing to rot - so you have no right to force me to turn my back on the only person in that _hellhole_ who cared about me.”

 

“Sansa, you have to understand, the Night’s Watch, the White Walkers -”

 

“Enough, Jon. Enough. It’s always about the bigger threat; it’s only always about the bigger threat. You don’t understand, Jon; you build a country like you build a castle - from the ground up. So care about the _bigger threat_ if that’s what matters most to you, but-” Sansa angles her body more directly to the assembled lords in Winterfell’s great hall, sweeping a fierce gaze across the room, looking each one of her bannermen straight in the eye. “You build a castle from the ground up. You build a country from the ground up. You care from the _ground up._ So loyalty for loyalty, care for care, kindness for kindness, love for love, promise for promise, my back to yours, from the ground up.”

 

Her eyes, her whole body is vibrating with passion by the end of her speech, and Sandor can only sink to the knee and offer her his sword; a formal speaking of the promises they have already made to each other, as the Northern Lords begin to drum their approval upon the long feasting tables with fist and sword pommel.

 

Sansa raises her hand, and the hall falls silent at once. The pleased gleam in her gaze softens as she addresses the only man, the only person, she fully trusts. “Rise, Sandor, my most loyal.”

 

“Bending the knee to you, my lady, will never be something I don’t want to do.” His voice carries, rumbles in the silent hall, and Sansa hears how full of genuine feeling it is. “I have never bent the knee willingly to anyone - except you, Lady Sansa Stark of Winterfell in the North. I am yours.”

 

“Rise, Sandor.” Sansa extends her hands to his, and he clasps them gently, tenderly, and only then does he stand. “My back to yours, my loyalty to you, Sandor. _Always,_ ” she whispers in his ear, and he takes his place at her right, as Jon looks on, utterly dumbfounded.      

 

Then Lyanna _(for a ten year old, she’s quite the kingmaker)_ stands and calls, drawing her sword in a salute: “The Lady of Winterfell, the Heart of the North!”

 

And the Northern Lords follow suit, calling _the Heart of the North! the Heart of the North! the Heart of the North!_ until the very stones of Winterfell themselves shake.

 

Sansa smiles, nodding and acknowledging each lord by name. When her gaze falls upon Sandor, solemnly taking part in the Northern salute some hint of heat, some hint of mischief lights his eyes, and her breath hitches, something deep inside her clenches and roils deliciously. 

 

_This man…_

 

 

* * *

 

 

Brienne is Jon’s sworn shield now; and Sansa takes her dawn rides with Sandor instead of Lyanna. Instead she spends her mornings with the Lady of Bear Island carrying out her duties as châtelaine of the castle, seeing to the needs of her guests, and riding out again after the noonday meal.

 

But the dawns, lavender and red and gold, deep in the stillness of the weirwood, belong to her and Sandor alone. They leave the castle just before first light, the better to catch the sun’s rise on the red leaves, dappling the snowy ground with gold, and there, in the hush, in the stillness broken only by the crunch of snow under booted feet or hooves, or the occasional stamp or wicker from their mounts, they spend time together, and for the first time ever in her life, Sansa finds herself utterly at peace.

 

Only with her most loyal can she be only herself, can she confess what worries or frustrates her, only safe in his arms can she sing or laugh. And he repays her honesty with equal honesty, her fears with patience. 

 

They both know things will not last the way they are; they now find themselves in the eye of the storm; eventually, Daenerys Stormborn will turn her attention to the North, the Night King will be drawn South of the Wall, the peace will shatter, and war will be upon them once more, and she will protect the North as she has promised. 

 

So deep in the Weirwood, one dawn, after he places his hands on her waist as he always does to lift her from her horse, once they are comfortably in their habitual spot sitting back against one of the trees by Winterfell’s hot springs in the godswood, she turns her face to his. 

 

“Sandor,” she whispers, stroking his ruin of a cheek. He catches her hand with his and presses it against his cheek.

 

“Sansa,” he replies, voice rumbling through her, grey eyes fixed on hers. Her pulse jumps. 

 

“My most loyal,” she says, before gently covering his lips with her own. He is still for a moment, before responding ardently, easily gathering her to him, hands moving fluidly from her waist up to the nape of her neck to tangle in her hair, windswept from the ride, and down to her knee in order for him to pull her bodily against him. She acquiesces with a sweet mewl as his hands begin to roam, stroking her back to knead her bottom and pull her even closer to him, brushing up and down her thighs, her ribcage, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts.

 

She can’t decide whether she prefers his lips on hers, or nipping at her throat next to her ears, or suckling at her nipples. Before this, she’d thought that nothing could be more exquisite than one hand on her lower back with the other tangled in her long hair, but now she can’t choose - his large hands firmly gripping her bottom or skimming, teasing up her inner thighs? 

 

“Sandor,” she gasps, noting with absent satisfaction how kiss-swollen his lips are, and she kisses him again, softly, laughingly, purely because she can. There’s a wolfish spark in his eyes, but she’s not afraid, because he will never go further than what she agrees to. 

 

“Yes, little bird?”

 

Oh, the things that _voice_ does to her - 

 

“I love you,” she says quietly. 

 

He inhales shakily. Sansa realises she has moved him to tears, and she suddenly has no words for the swell of tenderness that engulfs her, so she kisses him, again and again and again.

 

“Sansa,” he draws back, eyes averted. “I’ve no fucking idea why a bright young queen like you would want a dog like me, but I’m yours.”

 

“Sandor,” she replies, voice sharp, hand gently drawing his gaze back to hers. “You are my most loyal, you are kind and tender, to me, anyway,” she laughs, “you are the most noble, honourable man I’ve ever met. Why would I not want you? Why would I not love you?”

 

“I’m no ser, Sansa. Don’t romanticise me - I’m a killer, and ugly as a witch’s cunt.”

 

“I’m a killer too now.” Sansa replies softly. “And though you refuse the title, you are more deserving of the title of ser than any other I’ve met.” She strokes his arm, his chest, deliberately rolling her hips against his, and his hands tighten around her hips, his grey eyes darkening. “Besides,” Sansa adds with a sly smile, “my most loyal, your eyes are always so tender, your lips -” she traces them with the tip of her index finger “your lips are so soft, are made for kissing. Your arms, your chest…” her hands follow her words, squeezing gently, drawing groans and sighs from his lips even as his eyes darken and darken. “Your arse… your legs…you are so powerful… I can’t ever take my eyes off you… Sandor, my most loyal, you are magnificent…”

 

“The little bird is cheeky,” Sandor growls, pulling her even more tightly against him, and she goes willingly, melting against his torso.

 

“Your voice,” Sansa gasps between deep, feverish kisses. “Gods, your voice - have you any idea- ”

 

“What I do to you?” He rasps out, bucking his hips up against hers. “Gods, I love you. So beautiful, and kind, and clever, with claws too. Perfect. Gods, _Sansa.”_

 

“You’re _mine.”_ She kisses him aggressively. “As I am yours.”

 

“Good. I don’t share, little bird.”

 

“I don’t want you to.” She laughs, and Sandor can only marvel at the sound, so pure, so glorious, and, he realises, only ever in his presence. The notion humbles him.

 

“Sansa, Lady of Winterfell, Heart of the North, you know I think vows are naught more than rat’s piss.”

 

She giggles, a corner of her mouth pulling into a half-smile. “I know, my most loyal.”

 

“But,” he rumbles, looking her dead in the eyes, “I want to vow - fuck, can’t remember the proper ones, so I’ll just say this - I want to vow: I pledge myself to you in every way, heart, mind, body and soul, sword and fist, to protect you, to love you, to always tell truth and to make you laugh, until I’ve no breath left in me.”

 

“I - Sandor,” overwhelmed, she kisses him, laughing, weeping.

 

When she quiets, sometime later, fiddling absently with the clasp of his cloak, her body draped languidly over his, her head on his shoulder, she says, “I don’t like the proper vows either, not anymore, not after- ”

 

“I know, little bird.” He smooths a large hand down her back and she marvels at the comfort such a small gesture brings her. 

 

“But I want to vow, here in the godswood, in front of the old gods: I love you. I vow to you, only you, my love, my most loyal: loyalty for loyalty, care for care, kindness for kindness, love for love, promise for promise, my back to yours, heart for heart, mind for mind, body for body, soul for soul, truth for truth, love for love, this day and always.”

 

Sansa smiles in the languid silence, tracing mindless patterns on Sandor’s chest, on his arms and shoulders with her fingertips. “Sandor Stark has quite a ring to it, don’t you think?”

 

He crushes her to him, his lips drinking deeply from hers, only pulling away when her hair is delightfully tangled in his hands and her eyes are feverishly bright, a pretty pink blush blooming on her cheeks.

 

“It would be my honour, Sansa Stark of Winterfell,” He rumbles in a gravelly voice an octave lower than his normal timbre, and Sansa’s whole being shivers and trembles. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“No.”

 

“Sansa-”

 

“ _No._ ” She glares furiously at her brother; behind her, Sandor shifts slightly, exchanging uneasy glances with Brienne, and she knows without looking that his hand has come to rest upon the pommel of his sword. Jon has learned his lesson; they have sensitive conversations in the Lord’s Solar, before the King’s Council in Winterfell’s Great Hall. “I’m never going South again. I’m never leaving Winterfell again. I will not be _sold_ in marriage again - marry the Dragon Queen yourself if the alliance is as important as you say; but you will not sell me to one of her advisors.”

 

“You know I can’t do that, Sansa,” Jon sighs.

 

“Why on earth not?”

 

There is a long silence; eventually Jon averts his eyes, and realisation crashes through Sansa like one of Joffrey’s backhanders to the face. The sensation is so alien; so unexpected that several heartbeats pass before Sansa remembers she needs to breathe.

 

“So that’s the way of it then,” Sansa says lowly, dangerously. “One rule for the kings and one rule for the rest.” She laughs, but it is a bitter sound. “I’ve had my fill of tyrants,” she snarls, turning to leave, Sandor stepping up beside her. Her hand has almost reached the handle when Jon makes another attempt at persuasion.

 

“Don’t make me order you, Sansa.” 

 

Sandor sees something break in Sansa’s eyes before she whirls around to face Jon again; but this time she holds one of the daggers Sandor has taught her to use in her hand, and the tip is pressed firmly over her bodice. 

 

“I am not a pawn; I am not a broodmare; I will marry on my own terms or not at all. Order me, force me, and I will drive this knife straight into my own heart.”

 

“Sansa!” “My lady!” Jon and Brienne leap towards her, but Sansa steps away from them, closer to Sandor, who hasn’t moved, hasn’t said a word, but his eyes never leave her. 

 

“Destroy the marriage contract, Jon.” 

 

“I can’t, Sansa. Drop the dagger, and we can discuss this reasonably.”

 

A bead of blood stains the pretty bodice, wine-red against the Lady of Winterfell’s white gown.

 

“Enough, Sansa!” Jon slams his palm onto the table.

 

Sansa presses the knife more firmly against her breast; the bloodstain grows even as her words and gaze become colder still. “Destroy the contract or destroy me. Your choice.” She turns her gaze briefly to Sandor, and her eyes soften. “Forgive me, my most loyal,” she murmurs, before focussing once more on Jon.

 

The Lady and the King stare at each other, until the stalemate is broken by Jon wheeling viciously to the door, yanking it open. “I can’t refuse this alliance, Sansa. I have already given my life - this sacrifice is yours to make. You will marry Tyrion Lannister. I’m sorry.” 

 

And then he is gone, ordering Brienne with him, and the oak door slams shut; and the prison gate is locked once more.

 

Sansa stumbles, throwing the knife as far away from herself as she can, collapsing to the flagstones with an incoherent howl of grief and fury, but Sandor is already there to catch her, drawing her with his usual gentle tenderness into his embrace as she sobs her rage and heartbreak into his wooden tunic, her grip on his right arm and the back of his neck almost manic. 

 

“I can’t, I can’t - don’t make me - I can’t- I will _not-_ ” she chokes on her tears. 

 

“Sansa,” her sworn shield murmurs, and in his voice she hears his grief and his fury, for her, for them, at this world that forces this relationship which is pure and good and true into the shadows. “I’ll strangle the Imp with my own hands and stuff his mouth with his own balls and stick a fucking poker up his arse before I let him touch you. Before I let anyone touch you.”

 

She nods shakily and lets herself feel Sandor holding her, calming her down from this nihilistic panic, and she concentrates on how solid he feels, how gentle his fingers are as they smooth the tangles in her long hair, how tightly he holds her to him ( _only then does she ever feel safe, only with him_ ) how strongly she can hear his heart beat in his chest, reminding herself that this man is one of the very best fighters in the land, and that he is sworn to her and no-one else; that he is hers and she is his and that they will not allow themselves to be separated from each other ( _never again_ ).

 

“I know, my most loyal, my love, I know.” Sansa strokes his arm with her hand, leaning back against him ( _he takes her slight weight easily, he always does)._ “But I have no real choice - I can flee, I can submit, or I can die.”

 

“Little bird,” Sandor growls, arms tightening around her torso, and she revels in the protective, possessive strength of his grip.

 

“Do you know,” Sansa murmurs quietly into the helpless, despairing silence, “you’re the only person who has never betrayed me or sold me? Father tried to protect me but sold me to the Lannisters, to Joffrey. Mother tried to make me a lady but decided I had more worth as leverage against Jaime Lannister, as a political hostage, than as a person. Cersei sold me to Tyrion Lannister. Peter Baelish attempted to seduce me with freedom, and sold me to Ramsey Bolton instead. I free myself, and to Jon, the King in the North, my brother, I am only a _pawn._ Only you, my love. You helped me from the beginning, you told me the truth, you tried to teach me to survive, without any other motive than my happiness.”

 

“You didn’t deserve any of the shit they did to you.” He kisses the top of her head and she raises his hands to her lips. She kisses his knuckles, his fingertips, his palms, the inside of his wrists in reply. 

 

“There must be a way out. There has to be.”

 

“Aren’t alliances usually negotiated face to face?” Sandor frowns. 

 

Sansa gasps, twisting in his lap. “Of course. That’s it - we issue an invitation to Winterfell; the Dragon Queen will come, I’m certain of it.”

 

“Winterfell’s hospitality is legendary,” Sandor shoots her a rakish smirk; it gets a slight laugh out of her, which was its purpose. “I remember the first time I was here. The Lords already follow you, you have the Stark name by right of birth, and you are the Heart of the North.”

 

“Tyrion will find his information on me some years out of date.” A sly, satisfied smile spreads across Sansa’s face, but it is the spark of hope, of life suddenly appearing in her eyes which really makes Sandor’s chest ache. The look in her eyes when she’d held the dagger to her breast… he’d never seen them so void, so bleak, so resigned, and he’d seen her face when she was about to push Joffrey from the battlements after Ned Stark’s execution.

 

They might just have a chance.

 

“Come to think of it, they won’t be expecting Lyanna Mormont either.”

 

Sandor barks out a laugh at that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Winterfell’s peace is not disturbed by the Dragon Queen, as Sansa expects, or even by Jon, but by someone Sansa hoped but didn’t expect to ever see again.

 

It is almost dusk, the sun painting great wild streaks of gold and brown and crimson across the grey sky, and Sansa and Jon stand high on the castle ramparts, watching night fall, when the silence is broken by a long howl that sends shivers down Sansa’s spine. 

 

Jon and Sansa glance at one another; and she has the vaguest sense of time slowing. 

 

Another howl.

 

And then Ghost at Jon’s side sits up on his haunches and howls himself, once, twice, and the third howl is answered.

 

There is a moment of stillness, and then the direwolf bounds away. 

 

The howls are closer now, and Jon tears after his wolf, his vassals hurriedly flattening themselves against the walls. Sansa runs after him, her skirts gathered in her left hand.

 

The great gates are already open by the time Sansa reaches the courtyard, breathless with anticipation. The lords are milling around, drawn by the commotion.

 

Sansa’s breathing eases as Sandor steps closer, reassured by his familiar presence at her back. 

 

And then from the winter fog a shadow emerges; a horse, a rider and a wolf and a howling pack at their heels. The figure slumps, and Sansa runs to catch the rider before they fall to the ground, and Sansa’s heart stops.

 

She barely hears the northern lords cheering, Ghost’s victorious howls, barely noticing Sandor cursing fluently and at great length.

 

Because in her arms is her little sister, who she never thought to see alive again, a vague smile on Arya’s face as she rests in Sansa’s arms, exhausted. 

 

“I’m home… Sansa…” Arya whispers, and there is disbelief written in the shadows of her gaze, shadows that speak of pain and horror and loneliness.

 

Sansa bursts into tears, hugging Arya tightly to her. “Arya, Arya, Arya, yes, you’re home.” Her sister stinks of horse and sweat and blood, but Sansa doesn’t care, because her sister is alive and in front of her and in her arms. 

 

Another howl, and Sansa turns her head in astonishment. 

 

Nymeria. Now fully grown; the size of a horse.

 

And behind her sister’s direwolf, a pack.

 

Pups.  Direwolf pups. And -

 

“Buggering hells, she-wolf - is that a bear?” Sandor beats Sansa to it.

 

A smirk tugs at Arya Stark’s lips. “Mother always did say it was rude not to arrive bearing gifts.”

 

And Sansa laughs, smoothing her sister’s dark hair away from her face, and she thinks her sworn shield speaks for them all when he runs a hand across his face. “Well, fuck me.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa realises a tourney-feast to celebrate her sister’s long awaited return to Winterfell is also the best opportunity she thinks they’ll get to work on the Dragon Queen alliance in a way that will work to the North’s advantage and to hers. 

 

She moots the idea to Jon; it is swiftly accepted, and if she has to let him believe the delusion that she would willingly marry Tyrion Lannister in order to get him to agree to the idea, then so be it. 

 

Sansa, when not discharging her duties as châtelaine, spends her time with Arya and Sandor, Lyanna joining them as well on occasion. As she’d predicted, the two younger girls get on like a house on fire, but Sansa is surprised at how much Arya gravitates towards her elder sister.

 

She has taken to joining Sansa and Sandor in the godswood. The first time Sansa settles into Sandor’s arms in her habitual manner, the sworn shield resting against the heart tree, Sansa tenses, belatedly remembering her sister’s presence.

 

But Arya only laughs. “It all makes sense now,” she grins.

 

And then she tilts her head towards Nymeria, considering. The wolf lifts her head and then lopes off, only to return a short while later accompanied by two direwolf pups. 

 

Sansa gasps, unable to stop the flow of tears. “Arya - ”

 

“Who else do you think they’re for?” Arya snorts, before abruptly becoming more serious. “After what happened to Lady, it’s the least I can do.”

 

Sansa stares at the direwolf pup gambolling towards her, tears glittering in her eyes and on her cheeks, admiring the dark-red brown fur shot through with dark, soft gold, and the gentle eyes - _Lady’s eyes -_ looking up at her. The pup clambers into her lap, and Sansa smiles, revelling in being able to tangle her fingers into the soft fur.

 

“Thank you,” she chokes out. Sandor discretely tightens his grip on her waist in sympathy. 

 

Arya’s grin is feral. “Oh, I’m not done yet. Hound, the other one is for you.” 

 

“The fuck do you mean, she-wolf?” Sandor splutters. 

 

“You’re pack.” Arya shrugs. “You always were, really, weren’t you?” 

 

“Take him, Sandor.” Sansa urges quietly. “He’s yours, don’t you see?” She places a gentle hand on his arm. “Look at him.”

 

The dark brown pup pads towards the warrior, rubbing his head against Sandor’s thigh. Tentatively, Sandor brings his right hand to rest on the pup’s flank, exhaling shakily as his fingers sink into the soft fur. He’s struck by the rightness of it; the only thing akin to it is Sansa’s sweet words and even sweeter kisses. 

 

He looks at Arya. “I’ll not forget this, she-wolf.”

 

“Continue defending my sister, and we’ll call ourselves even.” Area rejoins wryly. And then she suddenly acts her real age by imploring her sister to tell her everything, ‘double-quick’.

 

So Sansa does. Cersei. Varys. Joffrey. Margaery. Tyrion. The Queen of Thorns. Aunt Lysa. Littlefinger. Ramsey Bolton. Theon. Even Jon’s plan to remarry her to Tyrion Lannister. Her plan to secure the alliance with the Dragon Queen. 

 

And before they return to the castle for the evening meal, Arya has not only told her tale but pledged her services as the Heart of the North’s staunchest defender, second only to Sansa’s most loyal. 

 

The three of them cause quite a stir upon their arrival, but Arya, Sansa soon learns, is as quick with her mind as she is with her feet. 

 

“S’only right that the Heart of the North has her own direwolf - Sansa is Sansa  _Stark_ of Winterfell, no matter how often people try to marry her off. Don’t you see, Jon - she’s the Stark in Winterfell.”

 

“Fine.” Jon nods. “And the others?”

 

“Her sworn shield should have one too, shouldn’t he?” 

 

“Arya.” Jon warns.

 

“There’s a pup for yours as well - Brienne!” Arya shouts as Nymeria deposits a black pup in the befuddled sworn shield’s arms. 

 

“Thank you, Lady Arya.” Brienne replies formally, bowing.

 

“Honestly, Jon,” Arya continues, gesturing to Lyanna, who is quite comfortably leaning against the black dire-bear cub. “We’re all the North, it’s only fitting. We are the North, the pack is ours, not yours or mine, _ours._ ”   

 

Sansa can only laugh, catching Arya’s wink.

 

Where the Starks go, the direwolves go too, has that not always been the way in this land of snow and sky and dire-beasts?

 

 

* * *

 

 

“What will you call him?” she asks Sandor as they walk to her chambers after the evening meal, their direwolves at their heels. 

 

“What’ll you call yours, little bird?”

 

She frowns, considering. “Dawn, I think.”

 

Sandor’s hand ghosts between her shoulder blades in response. “I’ll call this little bugger Dusk then,” he says, lifting his direwolf up so wolf and man are face to face. “What say you, pup?” The newly-named Dusk licks Sandor’s cheek.

 

“He agrees.” Sansa laughs, catching his eye, heat crackling between them. Sandor’s eyes are bright, and in a castle corridor, he can do very little of what he wants to do, but his fierce, burning gaze sweeps her from head to toe, and she feels it like a caress. 

 


	2. Diplomat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa plans, Lyanna toasts, and Sandor swears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to chapter II! Thank you to all for your comments and kudos, it really does encourage me and make my day. Lots happening in this instalment, so I hope you enjoy it.

* * *

 

 

_Diplomat_

 

* * *

 

 

Lyanna shifts in her saddle. Beside her, Arya frowns.

 

“They’re late.”

 

“If we have to wait much longer - ” Lyanna throws Arya a sardonic grin. Nymeria and Lyanna’s dire-bear, Frost, both claw at the frozen ground. 

 

Arya and Lyanna are waiting a ways off from Winterfell for the Dragon Queen, on the Kingsroad, the House Stark and Mormont banners flying proudly in the wind. Lyanna wears her black bear-fur cloak, and Arya her wolf-grey over her normal attire - coming back to Winterfell does not mean she is going to wear a dress, and Sansa knows better than to suggest it.

 

Then a dragon-shadow comes through the cloud, and circles above them, joined by a second as a distant, familiar rumble of approaching horses grows louder. 

 

Arya snorts. “If they think the North scares easily -”

 

Nymeria howls and Frost growls, and the sounds carry easily over the frozen landscape, the fog and ice creating echoes as the other dire-beasts in Winterfell join in. Arya recognises Ghost’s roaring howl and Dawn and Dusk’s higher pitches above the eerie, roiling, rumbling welcome. It makes Arya’s skin prickle with power, but she knows it has a very different effect on those who do not belong in and to the North; and indeed as the Dragon Queen’s party come into view, their horses are skittish, the riders only just keeping then in control. 

 

As Daenerys draws closer, accompanied by the Lannister Imp, Jorah Mormont, and a girl Arya and Lyanna will soon learn is Daenerys’s handmaiden and advisor Missandei, Arya smirks. They are all, without exception, shivering, even in their cloaks. 

 

Arya and Lyanna don’t move; forcing the Dragon Queen to come to them. From the slight frown in the Targaeryen’s face, this displeases her, but Sansa’s instructions were firm. Alliance, not bending the knee. 

 

Tyrion Lannister’s eyes widen. “Arya Stark…” he whispers in wonder.

 

“We Starks are not so easy to kill as that, Lannister.” Arya replies sardonically, and Tyrion bows in his saddle, acknowledging the hit.

 

“Lady Arya,” he replies.

 

“Where is your… king?” Daenerys’s voice is hard with distaste. “We would speak with him.”

 

“The King in the North is at Winterfell, as was stated in the last raven.”

 

“We expect our vassals to welcome us in person.”

 

“Daenerys of House Targaeryen, you would do well to remember that Jon of House Stark, the King in the North, is not your vassal.” Lyanna states proudly.

 

“Careful, little girl…” the dragons circle closer and Nymeria and Frost bare their teeth, hackles rising.

 

Daenerys’s horse snorts nervously, eyes rolling, ready to bolt. 

 

“I wouldn’t antagonise Lyanna if I were you,” Arya replies easily. 

 

“Lyanna?” Jorah Mormont starts.

 

“Hello, uncle dearest.” Lyanna drawls, a fierce, wolfish grin on her face. 

 

“Uncle?” Daenerys starts.

 

“Indeed, your Grace.” The man doesn’t know where to look. 

 

“To Winterfell?” Tyrion asks pointedly.

 

A secretive smile plays on Arya’s lips. “To Winterfell!” She calls, and the guards obey instantly. 

 

* * *

 

 

Daenerys is reluctantly impressed by Winterfell, by its formidable size and the burly Northern lords who inhabit it. She sees recent evidence of warfare in the blackened walls and in the harsh, fierce glint of the inhabitants she comes across. It is not like her cities across the Sea or even Dragonstone to the South; Winterfell is a fortress. This is a noble House far older even than hers; the notion makes her slightly uncomfortable. 

 

Arya leans across to the Dragon Queen, smirking. “Winterfell can withstand anything. Even fire.”

 

But there is no time to say anything more, because in the great courtyard the Northern Lords have assembled, adhering to the old traditions of guest-friendship. 

 

Sansa stands at her brother’s side in the courtyard, sworn shields standing at their backs in full armoured regalia, their lords fanning out on either side, encircling the Dragon Queen, though the Targaeryen has not noticed it yet. Sansa has dressed smartly, and under her white wolf cloak she wears a dress of heavy winter wool dyed in a dark blue, with delicate silver wolf embroidery at the bodice, winding around her sleeves in a ribbon. The blue skirt is also split to show the silver embroidered underskirt beneath; it is a garment she can ride astride in. She wants to display her birthright, her position, but neither does she want to fawn over this Dragon Queen from the east. She still winces at the extent of her preparations, that fateful day when King Robert Baratheon brought his family to Winterfell.  

 

The great gates fall shut with a sound like a distant thunderclap, and though their guests try to hide their instinctive flinches; Sansa notices that none of them are entirely successful. 

 

Arya leaps off her mount to join her siblings, leaning in to whisper in Sansa’s ear. She doesn’t actually say anything, but the movement unsettles their guests. Sansa nods in acknowledgment.

 

The business of introductions was always going to be difficult, Sansa knows, but a hint of fear winds itself around her heart as she looks Daenerys Targaeryen in the eye - she has the look of a tyrant, of a conqueror. Great things this queen has achieved, great, but also terrible. Her brand of diplomacy doesn’t seem to have evolved beyond submit or my dragons will burn you alive. 

 

When it becomes clear that no-one is going to speak, Tyrion Lannister steps forward. 

 

“Jon of House Stark, King in the North, we thank you for your hospitality.” 

 

Jon nods his acknowledgment. “Tyrion of House Lannister, may this meeting be kinder than our last.”

 

“I present to you the Mother of Dragons, Daenerys Stormborn of House Targaeryen, and Queen of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

 

Daenerys nods regally. “I present you my advisors -”

 

“The North Remembers.” Lyanna interjects, and her voice carries easily in Winterfell’s courtyard. “House Mormont remembers. We know no King or Queen but the King in the North whose name is Stark. He is my king, from this day until his last. You’re a traitor, a turncoat, and a slaver to boot, Uncle Jorah.”

 

This, as it was the first time, is the catalyst. As one, the northern lords take up the cry _The King in the North! The King in the North!_ and the direwolves take up the haunting, howling cry, and Sansa sees a flash of true fear cross the Dragon Queen’s eyes before it is ruthlessly squashed.

 

Sansa steps forward now, and silence falls. “My Lords of the North, we welcome the Dragon Queen as our guest. I’ve been to the South, as you all know, and the customs of Summer are different to those of Winter. So, my dear lords of the North, I’m certain they do not mean to offend - after all, they’ve never faced the cold. They don’t know that in the North we speak plain. We speak true.”

 

Another rumble of assent, and Sansa sees the fierce, mischievous spark in Lyanna and Arya’s eyes. Jon’s expression shows he doesn’t really understand Sansa’s plan, but that he trusts her. 

 

“We are not your Dothraki, Dragon Queen. We are not the plump, leisured masters of Meereen. We are not Dorne, we are not the Ironborn. We are the North. The North Remembers. And if you think, Dragon Queen, that the North will bow to a Targaeryen, you are wrong.” Sansa softens her voice, but it is not the prelude to weakness. “The North Remembers. The North remembers how Aerys Targaeryen burned Rickard Stark alive. The North remembers how Aerys Targaeryen burned Brandon Stark alive. The North remembers how Rhaegar Targaeryen took Lyanna Stark and started a war. The North will not bow ever again. And certainly not to you, Targaeryen.”

 

Raucous, sustained cheers follow this, and Sansa and Lyanna watch the bannermen’s faces carefully. Lyanna tilts her head in question, but Sansa shakes hers. The _Heart of the North_ is best kept in reserve; it would serve no purpose now - Sansa’s speech has done the job. Jon, having caught on to Sansa’s plan, takes his turn at the tilt.

 

“My lords of the North,” Jon says calmly, voice ringing with authority. “My _people,_ I won’t bow, you have my word. But let us celebrate, as deserves to be celebrated, my sister Arya Stark’s return home, here, to Winterfell in the North. It has been my great pleasure to invite the Dragon Queen to join these celebrations, in the hope that we may foster a lasting friendship and alliance. Here in the North we don’t hold sons accountable for the sins of the fathers.”

 

This starts up another cry of _The King in the North_ and when it subsides, Jon turns to the Dragon Queen and offers his right hand. “Shall we?”

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, at the feast, Arya whispers in Sansa’s ear. “Well handled, so far.” Sansa smiles and discretely squeezes her sister’s hand, before turning her attention to Jon, standing to start the traditional series of toasts.

 

Jon and Daenerys sit at the centre of the High Table, with Sansa on Jon’s right, and Arya and then Lyanna. Tyrone sits on the Dragon Queen’s other side, followed by Jorah Mormont, which Lyanna scowled about when she heard the news from Sansa. As châtelaine, Sansa would never have put Jorah Mormont on High Table, but Jon had overruled her, saying that the Dragon Queen would likely protest. 

 

“My friends,” Jon calls. “I must ask you all to stand and join me in toasting my sister’s return. Arya Stark!”

 

The hall stands, scraping back benches, and replies raucously, cups and flagons held high, “Arya Stark!”

 

Sansa’s little sister stands and makes her own toast in return. “To Winterfell! To the North!” and the hall echoes with drumming and cheering. 

 

Jon stands again, raising his goblet once more. “To friendship! Eat, drink, be merry, my lords!”

 

_To Friendship!_ is the echo as Jon clinks his goblet with Daenerys’s in a private toast once he has again sat down. 

 

Lyanna, never one to miss an opportunity, even under Tyrion Lannister and the Dragon Queen’s admiring, if slightly wondering eyes, stands to make her toast. It is clear to anyone with eyes how young she is, but no-one would ever dare take her anything less than seriously. “My lords of the North, I think we’ve enough wine and mead for one or two toasts more.” This garners scattered laughs and more table drumming. Like Sansa, Lyanna has won the northern warlords’ hearts, in very different ways of course, but Lyanna is much appreciated amongst the Lords - she is one of them, and the contrast with her disgraced uncle, sitting at the same table, could not be more readily apparent. 

 

“The Heart of the North, without whom we would have nothing to fight for!”

 

Sansa’s eyes widen fractionally, not having expected this. But she toasts, the same as everyone else, keen to unveil the information only gradually. These southerners have done nothing to earn the North’s secrets. 

 

“And lastly,” Lyanna calls, “to the King in the North, and to our absent friends.”

 

The toast is repeated solemnly throughout the hall, and Sansa catches Sandor’s eye from his position next to Ned Umber once they are seated again. He raises his goblet to her, and she allows a smile to flit across her face briefly, before returning the toast with one of her own. _My most loyal,_ she thinks. His eyes glitter appreciatively, and even when she turns her gaze away, she feels the heavy, reassuring warmth of his gaze on her, and she wonders if these clandestine, stolen moments are all they will have. 

 

It’s not enough.

 

It will never be enough.

 

She will marry him or she will never marry again.

 

He is the only man who wants her for her, not for her claim or as a broodmare. He is the only man worthy of her; he is the best man she knows. So now she needs a plan. 

 

If Sandor wins the tourney… both the joust and the mêlée, convincing Jon will be easier, of that she is certain. Convincing the Northern lords… if the alternative is her being taken South by Tyrion Lannister or the Lords of the Vale or of Highgarden or of Dorne… the Northern Lords are protective indeed of the Heart of the North. 

 

Sandor is the best warrior in the Seven Kingdoms; more than equal to the Kingslayer now that he has lost his hand, and the Mountain is far from Winterfell, serving Cersei in King’s Landing. She has complete faith in him.

 

* * *

 

 

They are alone in the godswood the following morning with only their direwolves for company; which Sansa had not anticipated, given their guests, but it is a welcome reprieve, a chance to rest, to fortify herself for the day ahead. She has come to depend on these dawns in the godswood, wrapped in her thickest winter cloak, enjoying the hush of the forest, and not only because of Sandor’s presence, but because she needs this quiet, meditative start to the day, safely ensconced in her sworn shield’s arms, nibbling on the lemoncakes the cook sneaks her from the kitchens, when all is still dark and quiet. 

 

She explains her plan to him, and waits anxiously for his opinion. They have declared themselves and made vows, but it is the first time the subject of marriage is openly discussed between them. 

 

His arms tighten around her waist and he reaches to take her small, dainty hand in his much larger one, and he entwines their fingers, resting his chin on the top of her head. She inhales sharply, melting back against him.

 

“Aye, I’ll fight for you, little bird,” he rasps into her ear as tears prick her eyes. 

 

“I love you,” she murmurs in reply. “I love you and I won’t marry anyone else. The thought of another man touching me makes me _sick._ I’ll die before I marry Tyrion Lannister or Littlefinger or -”

 

“I won’t let them within sighting distance of you, Sansa.” Sandor growls, folding her more closely into his body. “And Littlefucker… Dusk will rip him to pieces if I don’t do it first. The way I’ve seen the buggering bastard leer at you… the cunt always did it - even in King’s Landing.” The menace in his voice makes Sansa shiver and cling more tightly to him.

 

“I knew, of course, in the Vale, and I know he wants me: _at his side, the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms,_ ” she mimics, a bitter laugh falling from her lips. “Gods, if I never see him again it’ll be too soon, but he’s too dangerous to set loose.” She looks up at Sandor. “Even in King’s Landing?”

 

“Aye, little bird.” He frowns, then continues. “You’ve not explained - why did you agree to his plan to take you from King’s Landing - even after what he did to your father?”

 

“Why I - _my father?”_ Sansa sits up, twisting in his lap so they are face to face. “What do you mean, my father? Sandor, please, what is it - what do you know?” she asks desperately, clutching his shoulders for balance. 

 

Sandor sighs, and traces the softness of her cheek with trembling fingers. “Littlefucker betrayed your father to Cersei - I thought you knew.” He watches sadly as she pales, eyes wide, as her mind works, pulling those events to the forefront of her memory, as her understanding of them alters.  

 

“No!” She collapses into him, shaking. “No!” she repeats hoarsely. “I’ll kill him, I’ll kill him myself, I’ll do it, I swear.” Her scream is muffled in his shoulder. 

 

He holds her to him, gently carding his fingers through her hair, running his hands up and down her back, letting her grief run its course. She’s never been allowed to mourn properly, he realises suddenly, and he kisses the crown of her head tenderly, her grief and fury tearing his own heart. Their direwolf pups snuggle up to the pair, Dusk leaning his head on Sandor’s thigh and Dawn nosing into Sansa’s palm, and Sansa feels calm return to her, her grief burning itself out, and leaving behind it only icy fury and determination. Petyr Baelish will pay for his crimes; she will see it done. 

 

“He’s here for the tourney,” she says eventually. Sandor winces, her voice is flat, lifeless; and he’d wager a pot of gold that her eyes are dead, blank too.

 

“What do you want to do? You’re the Heart of the North, sister to the King in the North; your position is much stronger now.”

 

“I could bring him to trial; the Lords of the Vale hate him; they already suspect he had a hand in Aunt Lysa’s murder. I know he was - I was there. I saw it. He has committed crimes against the North; let him answer to the North.”

 

“Before or after the Dragon Queen leaves?” Sandor asks.

 

“Before,” Sansa answers decisively. “Let her see Northern justice. I’ll speak to Jon.” She snorts. “We don’t ask _dragon fire_ to do our killing. Let the man who passes judgement swing the sword.”

 

“You don’t like her.”

 

“No.” She curls into him. “She reminds me of Joffrey. Her first reaction to dissent is to order her dragons to burn people alive. If she is victorious against Cersei, I don’t want to be anywhere near King’s Landing.”

 

“Then you won’t leave the North again. I’m vowed to you, Sansa. I stand between you and any fucker who wants to hurt you, and if that means I stand between you and the King, then so be it.” He looks her in the eye as he speaks; and the look on her face threatens to shatter his heart. Her blue gaze is full of trust and affection and love, and it shakes him to the core. It is at moments like these that he is acutely aware that he doesn’t deserve her. 

 

“You are good and pure and the best thing in my life, Sansa Stark.”

 

“I was spoilt, naive, stupid, and now I’m _broken_ and-”

 

“Sansa Stark,” he growls, cupping her cheeks with his palms. She nuzzles into his touch, eyelids flickering shut, pressing against the onset of tears. “You were a child, you were innocent, and you-” it is his turn to swallow unsteadily and blink tears away “- you saw a man where everyone else saw only a monster, a dog, a slave, something less-less than human. You were good then and you are good now. You were brave then, and you are brave now - do you think the rest of your family could have survived King’s Landing the way you did? You may have been naive, Sansa, but you looked and you learned and you _survived_. You survived the Vale, you survived that Bolton fucker, and you will keep surviving.” 

 

Her eyes are wide and her skin is flushed, a pretty picture. He draws a deep breath and continues, desperately trying not to think of the way she is pressed against him from breast to core. “You are not _broken._ ” He snarls. “Trust me.”  

 

She kisses him then, and she is the only fire he is not afraid of, the only fire he welcomes, because her lips breathe life into his lungs, forge love in his heart, kindness in his touch, and desire in his loins; for her, and with her, he is a good man, and it is the greatest gift anyone has ever given him. 

 

* * *

 

 

“My lord Tyrion,” Sansa calls, her dark green and embroidered white gown rustling on the flagstones. The servants have cleared the hall after the morning meal; negotiations are set to begin within a turn of the sandglass. 

 

Daenerys’s Hand turns. “My lady Sansa,” Tyrion Lannister bows. 

 

“Will you walk with me? We have some time before our presence is required by my brother in the solar.” She speaks quietly, not wishing to be overheard.

 

“Lead the way, my lady.” Tyrion accepts. 

 

Sansa matches her pace to his as she leads her guest to the Glass Gardens, kept warm by Winterfell’s hot springs. It is the only place within the castle where a cloak is unnecessary. 

 

She watches him as he admires the blue winter roses that grow only in the North; and as Sandor slips silently in, unnoticed by all except her. She smiles and though Sandor's stern expression does not change, the harsh light in his eyes softens. He takes a seat on one of the workbenches and sets about sharpening his sword with his whetstone.

 

The hissing sound makes Tyrion jump.

 

“You are acquainted with my sworn shield, I believe, my lord Tyrion.”

 

“I am indeed.” 

 

Sansa nods, looks at her clasped hands for a moment, and then begins. “What do you know of Lord Baelish’s actions against my family?”

 

Tyrion frowns, looking closely at her. “Why are you asking me this?”

 

“Sometimes the line between friend and enemy is not always clear.” Sansa pauses. “You were kind to me in King’s Landing, as kind as you could afford to be. I recognise that now, and know that I bear you no ill will. I have never thanked you for it; I thank you for it now. However,” she continues, her voice growing sharper, the glint in her eyes cold and assured now, “that does not mean I will agree to whatever half-cocked marriage scheme Daenerys and Jon will invariably concoct for me.” 

 

“You are not the girl I knew,” Tyrion comments quietly.

 

“Did you expect me to be?” 

 

“I suppose not.”

 

“Will you give me an honest answer?” Sansa persists, though her manner stays gentle.

 

“You want to bring him down,” Tyrion realises. 

 

“He sold me to the Boltons. Did you expect me to be grateful?” Sansa snorts. 

 

“The Boltons are gone, now.”

 

“Yes, they are, but he is not. He sold me once; what is to stop him from attempting the same again? Will you answer me?”

 

Tyrion sighs, pacing. “I have no great love for Petyr Baelish; I have always found him a slippery sort; as for crimes, I know only of the one.”

 

“My father’s execution.” It is not a question.

 

“Exactly.” Tyrion confirms.

 

“I could seduce him and slit his throat, I suppose, if I were that way inclined - he would make it easy for me -” Sansa continues nonchalantly, ignoring Tyrion’s look of shock, “and it would be a fitting end for the master _pimp_ that he is, but now that I have enough evidence, I can bring him to trial; I can bring him down, as you say, in a manner that will not compromise the honour of my House.”

 

“Why are you telling me this?”

 

“You’re the only one able to talk Daenerys down from her bloodlust. I imagine, once she learns of Lord Baelish’s crimes, that she will be keen to assert her authority on the matter. It would serve her well to remember that she has no jurisdiction here; this is the North and House Stark rules the North. Not only has Lord Baelish committed crimes against the North, he has also declared the Vale for the North; let him therefore face Northern justice.”

 

There are many things Tyrion wants to say. Eventually, he settles on: “Your brother was entirely serious, then, when he said he would not bend the knee.”

 

“The North will agree to an alliance, not to vassalship.” Sansa replies calmly. “It is almost time; shall we to the solar?” She continues, sweeping away, and in that moment, Tyrion acknowledges to himself that although she might not bear the title, Sansa Stark is every inch a queen.

 

* * *

 

 

“Shall we begin?” Jon says once everyone is seated, the wine has been poured, and platters of fruits and cheeses and cured meats and bread have been set down on tables. There are nods and mutters of agreement.

 

“State your proposition, Daenerys Stormborn,” Sansa says evenly, as the Dragon Queen opens her mouth to speak. Fleeting irritation crosses the Targaeryen’s face, and Sansa sees Arya hide her smirk in her goblet of wine. 

 

“Bend the knee to us, or die by dragon fire.” 

 

“Are you always so rude to prospective allies?” Lyanna snorts, pouring herself a cup of wine. “No wonder you have so many enemies, _your Grace_.” The girl’s voice is biting. Sansa, Lyanna and Arya have come up with a strategy collectively before presenting it to Jon for his agreement and his suggestions. The three women are, in effect, along with Ser Davos Seaworth, Jon’s unofficial small council. 

 

Daenerys opens and closes her mouth, momentarily dumbfounded. _And not used to such blatant lack of respect,_ Sansa wagers silently. 

 

Jon takes this opportunity to present his counter gambit. “An alliance of equals; we aid you in your war in the South, you aid us in our war in the North against the White Walkers who will soon cross the Wall. And once we all stand victorious on the field of battle, you shall have the eternal friendship of the North.”

 

“I was born to rule the Seven Kingdoms, and rule them I shall.” Daenerys retorts.

 

Sansa scoffs. “You wish to talk of birthright - you, whose _right to rule_ is only centuries old, compared to ours, which spans millennia. The Starks of the North are descended from the First Men and have ruled in Winterfell for eight thousand years.”

 

“We are your Queen.” Daenerys hisses.

 

Sansa laughs, but there is no pleasure in the sound. “Joffrey used to say that all the time. _I am your King!_ ” she mimics with disquieting accuracy. “And then he would order his Kingsguard to beat and mock and humiliate, or he would do it himself by firing crossbows into whores’ groins.”

 

There is an uncomfortable silence.

 

“Her Grace is not like the other Targaeryens.” Ser Jorah Mormont says eventually. 

 

Lyanna sneers from her place on Arya’s left. “The Meereenese you crucified simply for disagreeing with your plan to rule them - would they agree that you bear no resemblance to the Mad King? Would those Dothraki khals you burnt alive, simply, once again, because they refused to listen to you?” In the stupefaction that follows, Lyanna smirks. “Just because the North is a thousand miles from King’s Landing does not mean we are deaf; we too have ravens.”

 

“It was necessary for our survival.”

 

“No.” Jon disagrees, his voice even. “It was necessary for your conquering. And you have shown that you can conquer. But nothing you have shown so far leads me to conclude that you have any competence at _ruling._ You can rule your little court  - fine - but what will you do when you assemble all the Lords of the Westerosi Houses in King’s Landing and one of them, happens to disagree with one of your laws - what will you do then? Burn him?”

 

“Our laws will be just and fair; there will be no coherent cause for dissent.”

 

Sansa can only gape in astonishment. “You truly believe that, do you not?”

 

Arya snorts. “What kind of world do you think we’re living in?”

 

There is another pause. Sansa believes the Targaeryen has not had to defend herself, her view, justify herself in such a way before. _Good,_ she thinks. _Perhaps this ‘Mother of Dragons’ will learn from this. Or, barring that, Tyrion may be able to curb the worst of her excesses._

 

“I find your self-righteousness nauseating, Dragon Queen,” Sansa comments evenly. 

 

Jon, correctly reading the tension in the room, suggests they adjourn until the same afternoon, and this suggestion is accepted with alacrity by all the solar’s occupants. 

 

Sansa catches her siblings’ eyes as everyone rises and makes to leave the room. A raven has alighted upon the windowsill; Jon nods, and the three wait until the solar has cleared before the King in the North unravels the scroll. Jon and Sansa motion for Brienne and Sandor to remain.

 

“It’s from King’s Landing,” Jon frowns, perplexed. 

 

“Cersei?” Arya asks.

 

Jon shakes his head. “Jaime Lannister.” He coughs to clear his throat and begins to read aloud.

 

_The Dragon Queen’s fleet was destroyed by Euron Greyjoy. Ellaria Sand and Yara Greyjoy are now my sister’s hostages in King’s Landing. Her dragons are also not as invincible as she believes. We have had our differences, Jon of House Stark, King in the North, but I would entreat your Grace to believe me when I say this: you have the opportunity, now, to remain out of this Southern War, to remain beyond the reach of tyrants; it is a boon not many in this age have the privilege of being given. I cannot abandon my sister now; it is the tragedy of our kind that the gods fashioned us for love. I am not blind to her faults, of which there are many, but I must go to whatever bitter end awaits Cersei and I._

 

“Why is he sending this?” Sansa questions. “And why now?”

 

Jon turns towards his sworn shield. “Brienne, you travelled with the Kingslayer for a time. What do you believe?”

 

The tall woman purses her lips, and remains silent for a time, before eventually replying, choosing her words with caution. “He’s trapped, I think…” she says slowly. “When I travelled with him, he told me the truth about how he became the Kingslayer.”

 

“Go on,” Jon motions with a gloved hand.

 

“In those final hours, with King’s Landing surrounded, the Mad King planned to burn the city to the ground, to blow it to smithereens. And as he gave the order, Jaime Lannister killed him. He saved thousands of lives.” Brienne explains.

 

“You like him.” Jon stares. “You trust him in some way, you think he is a good man.”

 

“I do, your Grace.”

 

“He’s trying to keep what little measure of peace there is,” Sansa’s eyes widen.

 

“Peace - what peace are you talking about?” Arya frowns at her sister. “We’re at war.”

 

“We will be.” Sansa agrees. “The White Walkers are coming, and that will mean war, but now - now we’re in the lull before the storm. Jaime Lannister is trying to give the North as much time as he can - I’ll wager he’s keeping Cersei’s attention on Dorne, on Highgarden and the Dragon Queen.” she huffs in wondering surprise.

 

“I have found him to be a man of honour, my lady, despite appearances.” Brienne offers.

 

“Some sort of atonement or remorse for the part the Lannisters played in our family’s misfortunes, then,” Jon says, raising an eyebrow. 

 

“I would so venture, Sire.” Brienne nods.

 

“Sandor?” Sansa questions. “Your opinion?” He lived with the Lannisters for years; he surely has some insight.

 

“Cersei- ” he swallows, and Sansa can see him consciously holding back the colourful choice epithets he’d like to pepper his reply with, and she bites the inside of her cheek to hold in her smile, “Cersei is the more dangerous of the two. She always loved her children, including that-er-Joffrey, far more than she loves her brother; always caused conflict between them. Now, without her children, she has nothing to lose. Don’t underestimate her. But Jaime has always had an eye on the consequences, has always attempted to plan for the aftermath.”

 

“I see,” Jon murmurs. “A threat equal to the Dragon Queen then, equal to the White Walkers?”

 

“For now,” Sansa’s sworn shield answers. “If Jaime Lannister warns you of something, I’d listen. Unfeeling, he might be, all those Lannisters are, but not without his own honour.”

 

“Alright.” Jon nods. “This also considerably weakens Daenerys’s position,” the King in the North muses.

 

“D’you think they know, already?” Arya asks.

 

“If they don’t, they will soon.” Sansa says. “We have the advantage of them now; we must use it.”

 

“Agreed,” Jon replies. “What of Tyrion?”

 

“I spoke with him this morning,” Sansa replies. “He confirmed that which I wanted confirmed.”

 

“We can move forward, then?”

 

“Yes.” A strange, satisfied smile flits across Sansa’s face.     

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are love!


	3. Lady

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sandor spars, Daenerys is reluctant, and Sansa - well, Sansa is as unfathomable and as beautiful as the North she is part of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another one for you; thanks for all the kudos and comments, they really make my day, so keep them coming :) Lots happening this chapter, so enjoy.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Part Three

_Lady_

 

* * *

 

 

_winter is coming_

_the North remembers_

_and the wolves shall return_

 

* * *

 

 

 Sansa looks out over the tourney field; at the grandstands being hammered into the snow, at the tents being raised, pennants flying, as knights arrive both from the North and the Vale, and she can’t stop the girlish excitement curling in her stomach. A tourney is truly something impressive, and she smiles, nodding in satisfaction. Arya will be pleased, she hopes. 

 

Dawn whines softly at her heel, tail thumping on the ground, and Sansa glances down at her direwolf before turning back inside, the pup trotting easily behind her. They have more than enough victuals, Sansa knows, but it is her duty to make certain everything proceeds smoothly. 

 

As she crosses the principal courtyard, she stops to watch Brienne and her sworn shield sparring. She can see they’re only playing, warming up their muscles, but they are impressive to watch. She sees the glint of fierce satisfaction in Sandor’s eyes, and she has to clench her fists to stop herself from swooning. The way he moves… so fluidly, so quickly, so beautifully, even. He wields his sword as an extension of himself, every hit and parry precise. He would be a very good dancer, Sansa thinks suddenly. She’s never seen him dance, but a man so light on his feet would find it easy. He parries Brienne’s thrust, using his momentum to force her sword in a high arc and then down to the ground in a single, swift move, stepping forwards and then bringing his hilt to the back of Brienne’s neck to force her to her knees, stumbling forwards. Sansa has seen enough of war and death to know that had the duel been real; it would not have been the hilt but the blade brought swinging round, and a swift, clean beheading.

 

Sandor’s bark of a laugh shakes her from her thoughts, and she watches as he extends his hand to pull his opponent up. The two sworn shields share a remark and a rueful grin before walking inside the keep for a bath and some sustenance. He catches her eye as he does so, bringing a tiny smile to Sansa’s lips. He will join her as soon as he has eaten and bathed, she knows.       

 

Her gaze falls on the small folk bringing in the winter harvest; grain and game and root vegetables that must sustain the North for the war and the winter to come. She nods, satisfied. She has asked the Lords of the North to bring foodstuffs with them as they come to Winterfell for Arya’s Tourney, so that the North survives, no matter the cold and the bloodshed, and she sees Ser Jorah Mormont watching her from the other side of the courtyard. Her brow furrows. Making her decision, she walks towards him, calling his name. The knight bows in acknowledgement.

 

“Walk with me, Ser?” Sansa asks, gesturing with a gloved hand. He bows again and falls into step with her as she strides briskly to the Glass Gardens, where she knows they will not be disturbed. 

 

“I hear we owe your recovery from greyscale to Samwell Tarly, maester-in-training for Castle Black, Ser Jorah,” Sansa begins without preamble.

 

“I - yes.” 

 

Sansa turns away. “And yet the Southron always assume that the North does not hear things.”

 

Ser Jorah does not know how to reply.

 

“Ser Jorah Mormont, Lord of Bear Island, slave trader, sellsword and now, sworn to a Targaeryen.” Sansa muses, turning to face him once more. “How did that last happen, I wonder?”

 

“My lady,” is the helpless reply.

 

Sansa looks at the man, scrutinising him, the open, unguarded expression in his eyes, the worn clothing. “You love her.” It is not a question.

 

“Yes.”

 

His words are even, but tinged with the faintest hint of despair, even now.

 

“She _is_ using you, you do realise that?”

 

“I know,” the knight replies heavily. 

 

“And still you follow her. You have followed her to the ends of the earth and you would do it again, no matter the cost, no matter the cost to you, personally.” A bitter smile crosses Sansa’s lips. “I know she listens to Tyrion; does she listen to you?”

 

“Not as much as she used to.”

 

“Of course not. She’s had more than a taste of power now.”

 

“Why do you wish to speak with me, my lady?”

 

Sansa raises her chin to look him in the eye, her expression impassive. “I simply want to understand why she has such a… diverse… following. You love her for herself, I can see that, not because she is a Targaeryen or because she has three dragons. Does she know how _rare_ that is? What a _gift_ you have given her? But she is unfamiliar, for all her posturing, she is unfamiliar with Westerosi ways, so of course she does not. She does not truly _understand._ ” Sansa gestures at the roses, the green growing things around her, the sparkle of the winter sun on glass. “I won’t repeat what was said in my brother’s solar this morning; it would be unnecessary, but perhaps I will elaborate. She has no diplomacy; hers is _fire and blood -_ she says she has no wish to be the Queen of the Ashes, but unless she learns the art of politics she will not survive long, no matter how many clever advisors or dragons or Dothraki she has ready to do her bidding, and she will have no-one to rule over either, for that matter.”

 

“No,” Ser Jorah replies.

 

“She is a true Targaeryen, you say - you are of the North, and the North _remembers._ She cannot claim the Targaeryen line and all that entails and simultaneously believe that her actions are not influenced by those of her forefathers in some way, shape or form. Either she is a Targaeryen or she is not; there is no middle ground. She cannot think herself superior to her ancestors or she will fall into the same traps. Have any Targaeryens _not_ turned against their vassals? Sooner or later paranoia and madness creeps its way into their hearts. It makes them stubborn. It makes them arrogant. It makes them _dangerous._ ”

 

“No more dangerous than a Lannister.”

 

“Lannisters don’t have dragons.”

 

“They frighten you.”

 

Sansa laughs hollowly. “Do you take me for a fool, ser?”

 

“No, forgive me, my lady.”

 

“They are dangerous and powerful beasts, ser. It would be foolish _not_ to be frightened of them. But mark my words, your queen’s arrogance and complacency will be her ruin.”

 

* * *

 

Sansa is in her brother’s solar as they prepare to go down to the Great Hall for the evening meal. 

 

“I hear you’ve been talking to Daenerys’s advisors,” Jon says as he pulls on his cloak.

 

“I have. I wanted to see what they had to say about her.”

 

“Why not speak to her directly?” Jon frowns.

 

“Oh, I shall,” Sansa replies airily. “But you can learn much about a person through how they treat their vassals.” She pauses, toying with her cuff. “I think I’ll ride out with her tomorrow; see if she can withstand the winter wind on the moors,” she adds with a wicked smile that forces a chuckle from her brother. 

 

“You really don’t like her, do you?” Jon says wonderingly.

 

“No.” Sansa replies firmly. “She’s a tyrant who’d already have burned us alive if she weren’t so afraid of alienating the North entirely.”

 

Arya pokes her head around the door. “Glad to see some things haven’t changed - you still take ages to get ready, Sansa.”

 

“Har har,” Sansa replies, but there’s no real venom to it. 

 

“Come, sisters,” Jon says, offering his arms. “Let’s entertain our guests.”

 

There is music, that evening, in the great hall, as they are served trenchers with roasted game; a stag, tonight - Sansa hopes Daenerys appreciates the irony - with root carrots and parsnips and lemon cakes to finish everything off, with plenty of wine and mead and ale to wash everything down. Careful use of the fortress stores means they can eat well and will be able to for a substantial amount of time, Sansa has calculated, the lessons learned at her mother’s knee coming in very useful now.

 

After the toasts, once all are happily ensconced in their meals, the bards begin their songs.

 

“House Manderly presents their thanks to House Stark for such a fine meal,” the minstrel bows, and at Jon’s wave begins his song, to an appreciative, anticipatory hush. Sansa notices that despite herself, the Dragon Queen is intrigued to hear what music they have in the North. 

 

Sansa lets the soothing, haunting melody that reminds her of the morning winter wind over snowy moors and the howls of wolves wash over her, but it isn’t until the bard opens his mouth and begins to sing that she really pays attention.

 

It begins on a hum, a haunting four note litany that loops and swirls and that becomes akin to the direwolf’s howl when the bard opens his mouth properly. Sansa shivers and she glances around the hall. Their guests are uncomfortable with this wordless song, and become more uncomfortable still as first one tankard, then two, then ten, then a hundred, begins to bang on the trestle tables, a solemn, stately rhythm rather than a marching song, and Sansa knows that this is an elegy, an ode and a welcoming all at once. 

 

And then Ghost begins to howl from where he lies at Jon’s feet on the dais. Then Nymeria, then Dawn, and then the rest of the pack outside the hall in the woods beyond the fortress. 

 

Only then are words added. 

 

_when winter comes_

_and the winds over moors_

_when winter comes_

_night soon follows_

 

_‘To the South, to the South!’ one cries_

_and so we marched_

_but in the South the Stark King dies_

 

_And there was fire, fire, fire_

_Fire in the South_

_and in the South the Stark King dies_

 

_And lions and stags and roses too_

_In the South_

_And so the wolves were left too few_

 

_but winter comes_

_and so winter came_

_For Houses Tyrell, Baratheon and Frey_

_Promise for promise, they did rue the day_

 

_for when winter comes_

_and the crows cry_

_when winter comes_

_all, all, all, do die_

 

_“To the South, to the South!” one fled_

_and so they went_

_and the North was left for dead_

 

_but the wolf in winter_

_turns North, to snow and stone and sky;_

_with faith too strong to splinter_

 

_“To the North, to the North!”_

_the wolf howls, and heed the call_

_do both bear and sword_

 

_for when winter falls_

_the lone wolf dies_

_but the pack answers the call_

_and the pack survives_

 

_for the North_

_the wolves return_

_and fear no storm nor war_

_for the North_

_the wolves return_

_for the North_

_Remembers_

_oaths to lord and land_

_for winter has come_

_and the pack survives_

 

As the last notes fade away into stunned silence with a final howl from Nymeria, Sansa wants to weep. The song has laid her bare to her core, and she sees Jon and Arya are similarly affected. It is a song of lamentation and of loyalty; Sansa might have been questioning what could make the likes of Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister follow Daenerys Targaeryen, but Northern loyalty cannot be compared to anything else; the North is different, the North remembers, and the North follows House Stark. She’s been letting her old doubts, ably exacerbated by Littlefinger and Ramsey, her old insecurities and fears get the better of her. Daenerys Targaeryen wants the North, wants her home, wants Winterfell, the only place where Sansa has ever felt safe. 

 

Blinking away her thoughts, she takes her goblet and stands to toast, rendering the hall silent with her movement. “Loyalty for loyalty, honour for honour, and the North for the North,” she says warmly, her voice full of affection, and her bannermen take note. 

 

Lyanna stands in response. “The North for House Stark!” she calls, and the hall follows.

 

Daenerys frowns, displeased, but can do nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon receives another raven from Jaime Lannister the next day.

 

_The Lannister army now has control of Highgarden; the Dragon Queen’s Unsullied are stranded at Casterly Rock. We emptied the larders before we left._

 

* * *

 

 

The Dragon Queen acquiesces to Sansa’s invitation for a ride after the morning meal, and though Dawn is growing quickly, Sansa prefers to leave her at Winterfell for now. 

 

Sansa’s breath is a steaming mist in the cold morning air, but the snow falling lightly brings colour to her cheeks and makes the colour of her hair stand out like heart tree leaves against the snow, and her mount, a tall light grey destrier with a proud carriage and alert brown eyes, prances daintily in the snow, snorting great puffs of air. She lets her mount have its head, something she would not have dared do when she was only a girl whose greatest ambition in life was to be an elegant southern lady; now she can ride like the best of the Northern lords, astride and fearlessly, over glen and moor and river alike. 

 

She wears a forest green riding habit, embroidered with her usual tiny white-and-silver direwolf motif, her usual black leather boots and furred gloves, and a white cloak embroidered with her direwolf motif, this time in russet and silver, and lined with white rabbit fur on the inside, including the hood, which she does not pull over her head; she can yet do without it.

 

Daenerys makes Sansa wait, a petty power play that the Lady of Winterfell recognises immediately, but Sansa takes the time to speak to the small folk who pass through Winterfell’s great gates, bringing provisions and manpower and news alike. She might be Lady Stark, but she knows the importance of approachability; and the straightforward, blunt nature of the small folk of the North provides a welcome respite to all the politicking she is required to engage in.

 

Daenerys eventually arrives, clad in a dark leather riding habit through which the red silk doublet beneath can be seen, creating a scale-like effect. Sansa eyes this dubiously, before deciding that if the Dragon Queen wishes to freeze in the name of vanity, it isn’t really her concern. 

 

By the time they gallop out of the gates, the sun is already relatively high in the sky, and Sansa knows they will be hard pressed to return in time for the noon meal, so she rides hard, leading her guest through the woods to the high fells. 

 

Sansa did not always appreciate such wild, craggy beauty, but now it is one of the most incredible sights she can fathom. It is also incredibly windy, and she bites back a smirk as she sees the Targaeryen muffle a curse and lift her left hand from the reins to her forehead in a futile effort to protect her face. She also hasn’t stopped shivering.

 

Sansa throws her guest a beaming smile. “Invigorating, isn’t it?” And it so happens to be true; the undisturbed snow, the wind in her face and the power of the horse’s movements beneath her; only in Sandor’s arms does she feel more alive.

 

The Dragon Queen frowns. “Not particularly.”

 

Indeed, Sansa imagines she must be feeling quite lethargic; the North wind, especially in winter, has a way of sapping all life and warmth from your blood unless the North is in your blood. 

 

“Let me speak plainly, Dragon Queen,” Sansa says, soothing her destrier, who is still pawing and snorting. Sansa loosens the reins and lets the horse do what he likes; for all his pretend skittishness, Sansa knows it is merely excess energy as he lifts into a half-rear, steady and controlled, before pirouetting. She simply tightens her core and squeezes her thighs in order to easily stay on. 

 

“Jon told me what you told him about your path, about your ascension to power.”

 

Daenerys starts at this, and Sansa looks away, out over the moor, before continuing. “You’ve had a hard life, no-one will deny that, but if you think you’re the only one, you’re a fool. If you think it somehow entitles you to the throne, you’re an arrogant fool.”

 

“We have never been spoken to with such little respect-”

 

“No, I imagine you haven’t.” A small smirk quirks the corner of Sansa’s lip.

 

“You were sold by the current Lord Protector of the Vale to Ramsey Bolton, were you not?” Daenerys asks harshly.

 

“And you were sold to the Dothraki Khal Drogo.” Sansa retorts evenly. “The difference between the two of us is that I was beaten within an inch of my life, didn’t fall in love with my rapist and eventually escaped, and then fed him to his own hounds.”

 

“That was kept quiet.”

 

“And why should Tyrion know that?” Sansa snorts. “Tyrion Lannister knew me when I was a frightened little girl, a lone wolf in the lion pit, desperately trying to survive. I’m afraid that if you’re relying on Tyrion for information about me, you’ll find that it is several years out of date.”

 

Daenerys nods. “You’ve told me what the difference between you and me is, but allow me to tell you the difference between me and you. I’m not fool enough to leave my enemies alive,” the Dragon Queen snarls.

 

Sansa laughs, cool and bitter. “You speak of Lord Baelish.”

 

“In _deed._ ”

 

“Have no fears on that score; I will have justice. House Stark will have justice, _northern_ justice. Lord Baelish will be punished for his crimes.”

 

“Good.” Daenerys says. “I will not have the north appear weak.”

 

Sansa scoffs, then speaks drawlingly. “Weak? Is _that_ what you think of us? Well, my sister’s Tourney should open your eyes.” Her voice becomes sharper. “From your words, I assume that you have not considered the fact that should I decide to, oh, rip Lord Baelish from limb to limb in Winterfell’s Great Hall, or that I decide to seduce, castrate and then gut him, I would be acting without the bounds of the law, and would lose the allegiance of the Vale, no matter how much the Lords of the Vale hate the man.” Sansa looks sidelong at her guest. “If you started thinking about consequences you might have a shot at this war.”

 

“What, then, do you suggest, if you are such a strategist, Sansa Stark?” The Dragon Queen bites out icily. 

 

“Thank you for the compliment,” Sansa replies smoothly, before looking her guest straight in the eye. “Do you want my honest opinion?”      

 

Daenerys visibly hesitates before gesturing for her to proceed. 

 

“I don’t like you.” Sansa says, her voice as harsh as the northern wind pinking her cheeks. “You’re more than a little tyrannical, and if you’re not careful your arrogance is going to get you killed. Euron Greyjoy wiped out most of your fleet and took both Yara Greyjoy and Ellaria Sand to King’s Landing as his prisoners. Your attack on Casterly Rock failed and Jaime Lannister has taken Highgarden. For all the numerical advantages you started with, you’re already losing this war and you’ve only just entered into it. You’re going to have to find some damned good reasons for my brother to agree to an alliance with you. If you really want the Iron Throne, if you really want to win this war, then stop alienating potential allies, stop threatening to burn people alive if they disagree with you, and start compromising. Start listening, start politicking, start playing the game of thrones.”

 


	4. Adversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon rules, Daenerys re-evaluates and Sansa miscalculates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to another instalment - a nice long one for you all this week :) so I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you all once again for your comments and reviews, they really do make my day, and encourage me to keep going with this fic.
> 
> Enjoy!

 

* * *

 

 

_PART FOUR_

_ADVERSARY_

 

* * *

 

 

“Not yet, Lord Baelish,” Sansa says, swallowing down her skin-crawling revulsion at her words and at the slimy, toady touch of his finger down her jawline. Her body is so tense, so rigid that she is almost shaking. Her blood is burning, bile is sharp and acrid on her tongue, and she wants to throw herself as far away from him as possible, but her face shows nothing of this hatred; to all outward appearances she is perfectly at ease, perfectly welcoming of Lord Baelish’s proximity, when nothing could be further from the truth.  

 

Some glittering spark lights in the Lord Protector’s eyes. “Not yet?” 

 

“Not _yet.”_ Sansa replies with an enigmatic smile, the phrase _theplantheplanrememberremembertheplan_ playing in her mind, and the only thing stopping her from killing him on the spot. He hears the strange emphasis she places on the words, how every syllable is so precisely enunciated, and smirks.

 

“When?” He hisses, and she forcibly stills a shudder at his horrid, minty breath over her face. At least he isn’t touching her, running claw-like fingers down her ribcage and hips or thrusting his wet, sloppy tongue into her mouth or the shell of her ear in the way he used to in the Vale, when she was still masquerading as Alayne Stone. But he still wants her, she knows. He wants the Iron Throne and he wants her, in his bed and beside him in court. She is the key; her claim to the North. He has set the Seven Kingdoms alight in civil war and he will do so again - because he wants her, as if she were some trophy, some prize, the ultimate fuck-you-my-lords to all those who have disparaged him for his lower birth.  She will not let him. She will die before she submits to him.  

 

“Soon.” She runs a finger down his coat, from shoulder to waist. 

 

“What of your sworn shield?”

 

Sansa swallows. _Forgive me this lie, my most loyal._ “A mere dalliance,” she shrugs nonchalantly, looking at Baelish from under her eyelashes, arranging her face into the most doe-like, innocent expression she can muster, lowering her voice coquettishly, conspiratorially. “I had to give the Lannister dog something, didn’t I? Rest assured that I know the importance of my hand, and will only bestow it upon a man worthy of it - you taught me that, Petyr.” 

 

From the catch in his breath, her words have the intended effect. Lord Baelish blinks, recovering swiftly. “And you have been a most proficient pupil, sweetling.” 

 

She smiles demurely. “Rest assured, you will know - when the time comes, you will know - but you must allow me this control. It is the only way to hoodwink Jon - he does not trust you, dear lord, but he does trust me, and this will ensure the success of our plans in a most… _delicious_ way. I have your love; I must ask you now for your trust.”

 

“You have it.”

 

“Good.” Sansa smiles again. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must to the hall. A lady’s work is never done.”

 

“Of course.” The Lord Protector bows and leaves her solar. 

 

But before she can flee to her bedchamber and expel the contents of her stomach; such is the force of her disgust, a figure steps out from behind the curtains, from the shadowed alcove, and her heart stops.

 

“Sandor,” she says, blinking away tears, stepping towards him. She does not need to ask him; it is written all over his face, in the tense hold of his shoulders - he has heard all. 

 

But she stops as he shies away from her.

 

“I thought - I thought- ” his face twists. “Damn you, little bird. You were meant to be _different,_ ” he whispers brokenly, before turning on his heel and storming out of the room.

 

She sinks to her knees; dizzy and something deep inside her howling, howling with fury and despair. In that moment, the price of being a player rather than a pawn seems far too high. Yet another crime to lay at Petyr Baelish’s feet. He is the reason she has learnt to act so well, so lie so well. The student will surpass the master. Poetic justice. She only wishes Sandor had not been caught in the crossfire.

 

She knows the agony, the fury and betrayal in Sandor’s expression will haunt her until the day she dies. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

He ignores her almost entirely from then on; he still accompanies her everywhere, still fulfils his duties as sworn shield, but he never speaks to her unless replying to a direct order, never looks at her, and she feels naked without the comforting, heavy weight of his gaze on her. She has hurt him terribly, she knows, and the knowledge makes her sick. She grits her teeth to stop swaying with the nausea of it, and wishes desperately that they lived in a kinder world. If he looks at her, it is only with the full force of his most scornful, accusing glare, and she almost crumples under its weight, only the knowledge that no-one must notice any change in her habits, lest they become suspicious, preventing her from doing so. Only when she is alone at night does she allow the tears to fall, the silent sobs to wrack her body.

 

Not even the news that Jon has called for a Council of the North in two days time; the day before the tourney begins, brings her anything but the most momentary relief. She fears she is beginning to crack under the strain; she has never felt grief like this; but she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell in the North, and she vows she will not _break._

 

 

* * *

 

 

“You don’t want the North, not really,” Sansa states during the negotiations, the disaster with Sandor making her more argumentative than usual. “You only want this kingdom because you feel entitled to it; but you don’t want it, you have not interest in its people or its customs, nor can you actually _live_ here. You can’t stand the climate, Dragon Queen.”

 

Lyanna takes up the thread of her argument. “You might think us uncouth barbarians, but we speak plain here, and let me tell you now: the North has no interest in becoming some frozen backwater whence pass through criminals on their way to take the black at the Wall.”

 

“Offer my people something of substance, Daenerys, and perhaps some sort of alliance can be forged.” Jon says evenly.

 

“What say you to marriage alliances?” the Dragon Queen asks, her voice absent of her customary bravado. 

 

Sansa snorts disdainfully, commenting that for someone who has herself been sold like a prime piece of horseflesh, Daenerys shows a surprising inclination to “make slaves of those under her command.”

 

Arya, who thus far has been silent, definitively coffins the notion. “And why should any Northerner wish to marry into a faction that has rather impressively managed to tip the scales of favour so far the other way that they are already the losing side after only the most preliminary stages of the campaign?”

 

“Enough.” Jon bangs the table with the flat of his hand. “In return for the North’s promise of neutrality in your conflict with the Lannisters, Daenerys Targaeryen, we would ask to mine the dragonglass on Dragonstone. That is my final offer.” He rises from the table. “Take your time to consider my proposition, Daenerys, enjoy Winterfell’s hospitality as the honoured guests of House Stark, and give me your answer after my sister’s tourney.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

“We’re the fulcrum of the war, now,” Sansa says to Jon as they ride through the woods near Winterfell on the eve of the Great Council, Ghost and Dawn loping at their sides, beyond earshot of their sworn shields who are trailing them, not wanting to take the risk of even being overheard by the Stark banner men as they finalise all their plans. Littlefinger will meet his end publicly, lawfully, Sansa vows. They speak of the Vale, of their cousin Sweetrobin, of whose death they heard at dawn by raven; Sansa has no doubt that it was Lord Baelish’s doing. 

 

“A dangerous place to be,” Jon replies as he jumps a fallen log. 

 

“But not an unwise one, as long as we are careful,” Sansa returns. “Do you think Daenerys will take our offer?”

 

“I hope so,” Jon sighs. “She isn’t surrounded by fools, so -”

 

“You think Tyrion and Ser Jorah will persuade her.”

 

Jon’s reply is cut off by their mounts going rigid in fear, and their direwolves’ sudden howls and snarls. 

 

“What-” Sansa starts, as Jon draws his sword. 

 

“Smoke, there - do you see?” he replies grimly. 

 

Sansa can see a plume of smoke rising from the trees in front of them; accompanied by distant sounds of human agony; then a roar, and a burning smell carried to them by the wind, the ash making their eyes prickle. And then the wood begins to groan, branches swaying. 

 

Sansa’s destrier rears again, whinnying, ears pinned flat back against his head, and she struggles to calm him. Sandor and Brienne crash their horses to an unruly halt.

 

“Sire?” Brienne frowns.

 

“Something’s wrong.” Jon murmurs, eyes straining, scanning, as he debates whether to ride towards the fire or not.

 

“The forest, the wind is weeping,” Sansa adds, eyes wide. “The heart tree! There’s a heart tree and it’s burning - can’t you feel it?” She bites back a whimper as her chest erupts in a sudden blaze of white pain that leaves her doubled over her horse’s neck, fighting for breath. She barely notices Sandor moving Stranger closer to her own horse out of the corner of her eye, left arm outstretched, ready to hoist her back into the saddle should she begin to topple.

 

“Sansa?” Jon places a steadying hand on her shoulder. 

 

“The wolves… call the wolves…” she manages to bite out. “Hurts…” 

 

The pain recedes, and she sees Jon nod. “Arya and Nymeria are on their way,” he says a moment later.

 

The heart tree calls out again; and this time it is a scream. 

 

“I have to - I have to-” She flicks her reins and her horse surges forward. She hears swearing behind her, and then the familiar sound of thundering hooves on snow as the others follow her as she weaves her horse through the trees, only paying heed to the singing fury in her veins, letting it guide her.

 

And then she sees a sight that is so horrible she cannot scream; a sight she knows, though she does not realise it immediately, will haunt her dreams for an eternity to come. One of Daenerys Targaeryen’s dragons is crouched in the clearing; the white heart tree is on fire and _screaming_ in her mind and at its base is a sled she knows, she recognises, and there are carcasses, human carcasses, half chewed, half smoking in metal armour and black cloaks.

 

She jumps off her horse, racing towards the sled, trying desperately not to look at where her feet are stepping, feeling bile rise in her throat as her left heel skids in something with a wet squelch. 

 

Because in the sled, covered in furs, unable to move, half the skin melted off his body, is her little brother Bran. Ignoring the flames, her vision blurred, she tries desperately to pull the sled away from the tree, tries to lift her brother’s body away to safety. 

 

The direwolves are snarling the dragon away from the carnage, and still the wood is screaming as the fire licks up the white branches, charring them first to the colour of blood, then to ash black, but she can only look at her little brother whimpering and moaning in her arms, one feverish eye looking at her without really seeing her. Somehow, she manages to make out his choked words, bending her head close to his ruined, bloody face.

 

“San-sansa…” her little brother forces out. “Sing… to… me…”

 

His eye loses focus again as she begins a wordless hum between choked sobs, as Jon, having made sure the direwolves are keeping the dragon away, throws himself to his knees next to her, disbelieving. Bran’s chest gives another feeble rattle and does not rise again; a primal roar of grief rips its way out of her throat and she knows that this is the end. 

 

“Bran, Bran, Bran,” his name is a litany she sobs, she _begs,_ “come back to me, come back to me, you _have_ to come back to me.” 

 

Strong arms come around her from behind; she strains against them, wolfish in her grief, howling, pulling, clawing.

 

And the woods continue to weep, the wind to wail, and the direwolves to howl, for the Heart of the North is prone with despair. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

Arya finds them in the same positions when she arrives; the heart tree has burned itself out, the direwolves are still circling the dragon, Sansa is slumped in her sworn shield’s arms, and Jon on his knees, staring unseeing at his brother’s corpse. 

 

Nymeria and the rest of the pack goes to aid Ghost as Arya shakily dismounts, ignoring the rest of her escort which includes their Southron guests. Sansa looks up at the sound of footsteps, and the younger girl has to wince at the dead expression in her eyes.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa does not speak a single word as they make their way back to Winterfell, Jon having fashioned a harness and stretcher from his cloak and the sled for Ghost and Nymeria to pull; Bran’s funeral pyre, and the only honour they can give him on the journey back to the fortress. Bran’s defenders are carried home by the guards’ horses. 

 

Winterfell is in chaos as they return, Ghost and Nymeria having to howl and snarl before silence falls. Jon addresses everyone in the courtyard itself, right hand raised for order.

 

“I had hoped we might welcome back my dear brother Lord Bran with a feast and songs in the best tradition of the North and of House Stark,” Jon begins heavily. “As it is, we must welcome him by laying him to rest in the cr-crypts-” his voice breaks with the tears that run thickly into his beard, “of the Kings of Winter here in Winterfell, where he belongs.”

 

_“Kill the dragon!” “Kill the Targaeryen!” “Justice!”_ the angry calls threaten to shake the foundations of the courtyard, and Daenerys Targaeryen nervously, face white, attempts to step away, but Lyanna Mormont draws her sword and her dire-bear Frost growls at her, preventing an exit.

 

The voices of the bannermen subside as Jon raises his hand again. “I must think on what to do with our guests; we will debate this on the morrow in our Grand Council, I give you my word as your king, but tonight we shall grieve.”

 

“Sire,” Missandei steps forward uncertainly, halting at Ghost’s menacing growl.

 

Jon whirls towards her, and the expression on his face renders the advisor silent. 

 

Breathing deeply, he says in a voice thick with grief, “Tyrion, Ser Davos, Sansa, Arya, come. The rest of you, leave me. NOW!” He roars when no-one moves. “And by the gods, cover my brother and his defenders!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

It is a measure of his grief that Jon serves them all wine personally in his solar. Sansa is numb, barely feeling the warmth, deep and curling, of the wine as it slides easily down her throat.

 

“Sire,” Tyrion begins. “No-one could have foreseen this.”

 

“Really?” Arya snarls. “I heard something similar happened in Meereen to a shepherd boy. By the gods, you don’t hatch dragons if you can’t control them! Our direwolves, for all that they are creatures of legend, and wild, certainly not _pets,_ would never do such a thing.”

 

“I do not believe I wish to ally with such a dragon queen as yours, Tyrion.” Jon says.

 

Tyrion nods in acceptance. 

 

“Daenerys’s dragon killed the Prince of the North; reparations must be made. I must think on what they shall be.” Jon continues.

 

“I am more sorry than I can express; I liked Lord Bran very much - he was always kind to me.” Tyrion replies solemnly. “And I shall explain your thoughts to Daenerys. By your leave, Sire,” he bows his head and Jon returns the gesture.

 

“Tyrion!” Sansa speaks just as he is about to open the door, and the dwarf looks back at her, brow furrowed in question.

 

“You were kind to me in King’s Landing. Know that you will always have friends at Winterfell and that you will always be welcome in the North.”

 

“You are most kind, Lady Stark,” he replies, voice oddly constricted.

 

 

* * *

 

 

She curls up that night in her empty bed and wakes screaming her rage and her grief. Dawn leaps up onto the bed and curls up around Sansa, her little pink tongue gently licking away the Lady of Winterfell’s tears. Sansa turns, tangles her fingers in the soft russet fur, and clings on to the direwolf like a small child.

 

If she feels any more grief, Sansa thinks, she will break, vow or no. 

 

Her dreams are troubled; she stands before a burning heart tree, becoming aware of a tug on her hands. Looking down, she sees she is holding a leather leash. Lady, still a pup, looks up at her, golden eyes wide and soulful, and leads her to the base of the white tree. Sansa blinks, and is met with the sight of Lady’s bloody corpse and she wants to scream but the sound is choked and dies in her mouth as the wind begins to wail and the white tree, screaming, turns to ash. She turns and sees Dawn’s face staring up back at her from Winterfell’s hot springs, but the eyes are strange, she realises. The eyes are Tully blue, not Dawn’s gold. _Sansa-eyes_ in the face of the direwolf.  

 

 

* * *

 

 

Bran’s body is laid to rest in the crypts of Winterfell at dawn. Carried by Sandor and Brienne, covered with an old wolf-cloak found in one of the family chambers, he is somehow smaller than what Sansa remembers him being, and she fights desperately to control the rising bile in her throat, the buzzing in her ears, the tingling in her fingers, the heat that spreads across her forehead and the tightness in her chest that are the prelude to fainting. She grits her teeth, biting back a whimper. She will not dishonour Bran by fainting away.

 

She realises with a jolt that this is the first member of her family she has personally buried, and she can’t decide whether the thought sickens her or not. Her father’s bones lie here, but her mother’s corpse was thrown into the river by the Freys, no-one can say for certain what happened to Robb’s corpse after his killers tired of parading his desecrated body around, and Jon and Sansa have been unable to recover Rickon’s body from the battlefield outside Winterfell. 

 

The stone slab, so heavy Sandor could not lift it alone, is lowered by their retainers, sliding her little brother’s tomb shut with a dull scrape. Later, their stonemasons will carve out Bran’s effigy, with his faithful Summer at his side, but for now the grey stone is plain, somehow unfinished. 

 

Jon jerks his head and everyone leaves, until only Jon, Arya and her remain in the crypts. 

 

“It is done,” Jon sighs soberly. 

 

Sansa nods her head jerkily. “We’re the last Starks now. For so long I thought I was alone, I thought I was the very last of us - I’d wager you both thought the same.” She turns to look across at her father’s effigy, tilting her head up at the smooth face, the eyes that stare blankly into the opposite wall, so devoid of the warmth with which he took care of his House and his lands, and numbness seeps into her very bones. “Do you remember what Father always said? _When the snows fall and the white winds blow, the lone wolf dies_ -”  

 

“ _But the pack survives_.” Arya finishes. “No atonement can be made for Bran’s death.” 

 

“What would you have me do? I thought on this long into the night, but could see no way forward.” Jon frowns, and Sansa hears in his voice his grief, his frustration and his hopelessness.

 

“An eye for an eye, that’s the Northern way,” Arya shrugs. 

 

Jon barks a hollow laugh. “Daenerys will never agree to that.”

 

“Not her,” Sansa says suddenly. “Her _dragon._ ” 

 

“A little like Lady.” Arya catches on quickly. 

 

“Yes, that was what originally gave me the idea.”

 

“And how do you propose I go about slaying a dragon?”

 

“That raven from Jaime Lannister - didn’t it contain something about scorpion ballistae?” Sansa paces, thinking aloud, boots echoing on the stone.

 

“We haven’t got scorpion ballistae, stupid.” Arya scoffs, and the use of the old nickname makes Sansa smile now instead of cry in humiliation.

 

“No,” Sansa agrees. “But Jon does carry Valyrian steel,” she continues, nodding towards Longclaw belted at the King in the North’s waist. 

 

“You think I can slay a dragon with a _longsword?”_

 

Sansa raises a hand. “Think for a moment,” she exhorts. “The Lannisters can’t have built ballistae bolts with Valyrian steel; there simply isn’t enough of it lying around to make it worthwhile. So that means they will have used ordinary steel. Ordinary steel, sharpened into large enough bolts, fired at a high enough speed, can bring down dragons. Following that, why shouldn’t a Valyrian steel blade be able to do the same? After all, those ancient dragonlords had to have had some last resort means of controlling the damned beasts, didn’t they?”

 

Jon and Arya are looking at her, wide-eyed, incredulous, as though they’re truly seeing her for the first time, and perhaps they are.

 

“And if it doesn’t work, you can always have a champion’s duel.”

 

“Agreed,” Jon says, when he finds his voice again. “Champion’s duel, I think, added to a few other things I have in mind.”

 

“But -”

 

“I think it might be more prudent to keep your brilliant theory quiet for the moment. If she refuses, then that is what I shall ask for. Either way, blood will flow this day.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Hall falls silent as soon as the remaining members of House Stark enter Winterfell’s Hall, flanked by their direwolves and sworn shields. Daenerys is pale, and her advisors shift nervously on the balls of their feet. Sansa and Arya follow Jon as he storms up the central aisle between the tables housing their bannermen, great lords from the North and the Vale alike, cloaks flapping behind them, and their direwolves snarling and growling at their feet.

 

“My Lords of the North and the Vale, I welcome you most heartily to this first Great Council. House Stark welcomes you to Winterfell and thanks you for your loyalty. Here in the North we understand the value of loyalty, and I give you my word, it is never taken for granted. I will hear your concerns and counsel, my lords, once all of us have debated to our satisfaction the issues which I will set before you this morning.” Jon speaks, his voice carrying clearly in the silent hall, and this is met with the raucous reply of drawn swords held high in the Northern salute and the cheering cry of _The King in the North! The King in the North!_

 

Eventually, at a discreet nod from Sansa, Lyanna Mormont lowers her sword and the rest of the hall follows suit, quietening at the same time.

 

“My thanks, my lords.” Jon bows his head in acknowledgement. “I set before you this question: what should be done with Daenerys Targaeryen, self-styled Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, and murderess of Prince Brandon Stark of the North? She comes here at my invitation, shares our bread and salt, and in her arrogance expects me to bend the knee or be burned alive - ( _Jon nods, acknowledging the surprised shouts of outrage)_ yes, that is what this Dragon Queen considers _diplomacy._ ” He snarls the last word and Sansa has to suppress a smile; he hasn’t perhaps been showing it as overtly as she would like, but her brother has been paying to her speeches over the last weeks. “And she brings with her these dragons, these _beasts_ she cannot control, and they burn alive _and then eat_ a group of innocent children and their defenders. Aye, we Starks bring our direwolves to battle, but they are intelligent enough not only to distinguish between friend and foe but also to obey us. I tell you know, my people, that I am not that shepherd boy’s father; I am the King in the North, I am Jon of House Stark of Winterfell, and I shall not let such a crime go unpunished.” Jon’s voice is a roar now, and pauses before continuing, tying the room more closely to his side. “You would rule Westeros, Dragon Queen. Well, I don’t know how things are done in Essos, can’t say I’ve ever been, but here in the North, Kings abide by the law. You want to rule, so you, same as me, same as anyone else, you, Daenerys Targaeryen will abide by the law. You will take the punishment for your crime.” He spreads out his arms. “What say you?” He flings out at the room. “My people, what say you?”

 

And unlike the uncontrolled rasp of fury the previous day in Winterfell’s courtyard, this time the traditions of the Great Council are adhered to: each lord shall have their say, uninterrupted, greeted either with silence in case of disagreement or sustained drumming of fists on tables in case of agreement. 

 

Lyanna stands to speak first. Jon acknowledges her with a nod. “See how this southerner fares against your direwolf unarmed, your Grace. Let’s see how she likes it.” The drumming begins, and Lyanna sits, satisfied.

 

“Aye, like for like’s fair, Lady Mormont.”

 

Lord Royce is next. “I say we should not forget about those points you argued for in your negotiations either, Sire.” 

 

Jon nods sharply, and the drumming continues. 

 

Alys Karstark stands, somewhat shakily, but her voice grows in strength as she continues. “My King, I might be young, but this war has not spared the young; it never does. Dragons care not whether you’re innocent or guilty; they spare no-one. Ever since dragons first came to the Seven Kingdoms, they have preyed on all alike. Enough, I say. Let there be no more children screaming to death as flames and dragon eat them. Enough. Let this Targaeryen understand this horror for herself, let us give it to her. Let us put down her dragons like the rabid beasts they are. They are an abomination. Let _their_ blood stain the snow for once.”

 

The drumming is almost deafening as Ned Umber stands in turn. “House Umber agrees with House Karstark.”

 

And it goes on and on, as the Lords debate the merits of all the points raised, Jon acknowledging the words of each speaker. Sansa lets her gaze scan the room, taking the measure of the Hall. Daenerys’s expression could have been made of stone; it has not changed since the Council began. Nervousness and admiration war on Tyrion’s face as he engages with this unique bulwark of Northern rule that is the Great Council and that exists nowhere else in the Seven Kingdoms. The Lannister is a grand amateur of scholarship, Sansa remembers, so it stands to reason that his expression would be rapt on a purely intellectual level even if his personal stakes were not engaged.

 

Finally, each House has had their say, and Sansa steps forward, into the central space between the assembled lords. “My King, my Lords, if I may?” Jon waves his arm expansively in acceptance and Sansa nods her head briefly in thanks. “Let this be settled in the oldest way of all. Single combat. A champion’s duel. You told me a few days ago, _your Grace,_ that you wished to see Northern justice.” A smirk plays on her lips. “Well, now you will.”

 

Loud _Ayes_ rumble the hall, and Jon nods. 

 

“Aye,” he replies, stepping forwards, nodding his head. “Aye, I’ll certainly agree to that. Along with the banishment of this Dragon Queen and all her followers from these lands, and all rights to all of dragonglass, in _perpetuity,_ because no amount of reparations can possibly atone for the murder and desecration of the Prince of the North and his guard.” 

 

“And who will you pick as your champion?” Daenerys snarls.

 

“I ask nothing of my people that I am not willing to do myself. I’ll do this myself.” Jon replies evenly, barely hiding the _wasn’t it obvious_ in his tone. “Mind,” he adds, “I’ll not be tricked like my uncle and my grandfather were. Doing this the old way means a fair fight. You can’t choose fire or your dragons to be your champion.”

 

“You’re willing to die for _this?”_ Daenerys scoffs, disbelieving.

 

“He was my little _brother!_ ” Jon roars. “And aye, I’m willing to die. For my brother, for my people, for the North, of _course_ I am. I’m their King.”

 

Daenerys doesn’t know how to reply, but Jon catches the question in her eyes and answers it anyway. 

 

“Should you by some miracle best me, your Grace, my crown will pass to my sister Sansa, of course,” he bites back mockingly. 

 

“You would mock me for not fighting myself, but what would happen if your sister Sansa were in my position? Would you mock her too, for being a lady, unable to defend herself?”

 

Sansa smiles, but it is a thin, sneering sort of smile that does not reach her eyes. “Unable to defend myself? If you think words are wind and that the only weapons are steel and dragon fire, allow me to educate you. Words are weapons. Do you think I survived Joffrey’s reign and the Red Keep by stabbing everyone in sight?” She laughs coldly. “My head would have joined my father’s on a spike before the day was out. But no, instead I told my captors what they wanted to hear from their pretty little hostage; that she was still as stupid and as naive and ignorant as ever; the perfect pawn. But let us examine your original question.”

 

She lowers herself to sit on the warm flagstones so she doesn’t fall and injure herself, as daintily as ever. Dawn nuzzles her side. “Look at me, Daenerys Targaeryen.” Sansa says. “Look at me _very_ closely.”

 

And only then, once she not only has the Dragon Queen’s confused gaze locked on hers as well as everyone in the room riveted on her, does she inhale deeply and reach along her bond with Dawn until everything is _smell-sound-light-metal-blood-heart thump-thump-fourlegs-fur._

 

Dawn-Sansa charges at the Dragon Queen, padded feet silent on the stone, hearing the hushed exclamations as she gathers herself, leans back on her haunches and then springs into the air, eyes narrowed on that slim white throat, fangs bared, snarling, growling, and she forces the Dragon Queen back to the ground, haunches immobilising the Targaeryen’s legs, body stretched over the human, claws and fangs bared to rip out the throat, and Sansa-blue eyes fixed on Daenerys’s violet. Dawn-Sansa exults in the stench of fear, in the wide-eyed shock in the Targaeryen’s eyes, her violent shaking, pulse thundering through the artery of the neck, and lets her prey feel her weight for a bit, before Sansa flies deliberately back into herself, waiting for the Dragon Queen to see the change in eye colour, before calling Dawn back to her side.

 

“Not so defenceless after all,” Sansa smirks, drawing herself back up again, adopting a drawling, condescending tone as the Targaeryen angrily, shakily, shakes off her advisors’ aid to stand. “The Starks follow the Old Gods and have done so for as long as anyone can remember. As a result, they sometimes choose to bestow on members of House Stark certain gifts. My siblings and I are all wargs.”

 

“You _were_ your wolf.” Daenerys emphasises her point by jabbing her finger at the air. 

 

“I was, yes.” Sansa drawls out in reply. “I’m a warg.” She shrugs, adding nonchalantly, “So are my siblings. Does that answer your question sufficiently? Good. Now if we could return to issues of actual importance; I believe we were discussing your champion, Dragon Queen.”

 

“Who would you have as your champion?” Jon asks. 

 

There is silence, and though she does not show it, Sansa can feel Daenerys’s growing embarrassment. 

 

“No-one?” Jon continues incredulously, looking around. “No-one at all?”

 

And then a voice from the back of the hall calls out. “I will fight for Daenerys Targaeryen. I shall be her champion.”

 

Daenerys turns, startled, an expression of ill-concealed shock flitting across her face, as Ser Jorah Mormont pushes politely past the various northern lords to the centre of the hall, coming to stand on the Dragon Queen’s right.

 

“Jorah, no, you can’t.” Daenerys exclaims. “I forbid it. I need you.”

 

Ser Jorah bows his head wearily. “And that is precisely why I needs must be your champion, my Queen. So that my death has at least some chance of atoning for your crime.” Daenerys reaches out a hand to try and stop him, but he shakes her off. “You have so little faith in me, Daenerys, after all this time.” He averts his eyes. “I don’t know why I kept expecting better. Don’t insult me further by refusing this.”

 

Sansa winces. A personal relationship unravelling in public is not an easy thing to watch, and must be even more excruciating for the two involved. Well, for Ser Jorah at any rate. Sansa has not seen anything resembling genuine emotion for someone else at all in Daenerys throughout the Dragon Queen’s stay in Winterfell. 

 

Ser Jorah then turns towards her brother, head held high, voice perfectly even. “Sire, if I may ask one boon of you?”

 

“Go on,” Jon replies neutrally.

 

“Send my bones back to Bear Island. Let me be buried there. I was born in the North; I should like to be buried in the North. It seems I am finally at journey’s end. Fitting, I suppose, for me to die in the North.”

 

“For the love of your Dragon Queen? You would be her champion for love of her?”

 

“Aye,” is the heavy reply.

 

“Then you have regained your honour. Aye, should I kill you, you have my word as King in the North. I’ll see it done.” Jon turns to Lyanna. “Do you give your word, Lady Mormont?”

 

“Oh, I can do better than that, your Grace.” Lyanna replies, before stepping towards the knight. “Ser Jorah, I give you my word. You will be buried on Bear Island, with full honours and in the family crypts.” Before the utterly bewildered man can protest, Lyanna throws her arms around him and rests her cheek on his chest, before raising her head to look at him. “Welcome home, uncle,” Lyanna continues with a gentleness not often seen on the Lady of Bear Island. Ser Jorah freezes, before tentatively and then fiercely returning the girl’s embrace.

 

“Thank you, Lyanna,” he replies, fighting the tears in his voice. He kisses her forehead lightly before stepping away.

 

“Thank you, Sire,” he bows. 

 

Jon nods. “We shall meet upon the hour of mid-afternoon in the clearing where my brother the Prince in the North fell. Let the wronged heart tree and the Old Gods bear witness to this combat.”

 

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I'm cruel. But thoughts?


	5. Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon nods, Arya smirks, and Sansa receives a raven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry about the delay on this chapter; I wanted to do it justice - I feel like though I didn't write myself into a corner at the end of the last chapter, I did write myself into a 'oh the next chapter is going to be seriously important' and that was a bit frightening. 
> 
> I do hope you enjoyed the season finale on TV - what an episode! Any dialogue you recognise is from the show.
> 
> Enjoy!

* * *

 

 

_PART FIVE: WOLF_

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa dresses meticulously; a white and silver embroidered dress with a high furred collar and slashed skirts that show the darker grey wool beneath and enable her to ride with ease, a white cloak trimmed in white fur that hangs from her shoulders, secured with a silver chain with snarling direwolves for clasps. 

 

“That is quite a provocative statement, sister,” Arya says from the door to her bedchamber, motioning to Sansa’s hair. On Sansa’s head sits a circlet made from fallen heart tree wood, and into it are twined the deep red weirwood leaves that have become Sansa’s unofficial personal sigil. 

 

Sansa smirks, gesturing at the table leaning against the wall below the mirror. “Jon had one made for you as well.” 

 

Arya looks at the circlet and inhales sharply. “Are you certain that is wise?”

 

“Lyanna Stark was Rhaegar Targaeryen’s downfall. It is only fitting to remind Daenerys of that fact.”

 

“Sansa…” Arya trails off, looking uncertainly at the circlet of white wood and blue winter roses. “Does Jon know?”

 

“He agreed.” Sansa sighs, turning to look at her sister. “Do you trust me?”

 

Arya nods. “I do.”

 

“Then trust me when I say I know what I am doing.” Sansa strides over to the bed and lifts up another furry garment. “There’s one more thing,” she smirks. “I made this for you. Wool, with a leather lining and furred hem, to keep you warm, but light enough so that your movement isn’t compromised in a fight.” 

 

Stunned, viciously swallowing back a sudden onset of tears, Arya steps into the garment, a slow smile spreading across her face. The wool is dark grey, and the leather equally dark, and she admires the slashed fall of cloth. It’s a cross between a cloak and a coat, hanging down to her ankles, with well concealed gaps to put her arms through so her sword doesn’t tangle, as it can with a normal cloak, or to prevent her riding astride. It hangs from the edges of her shoulders, grey fur wrapping around her in a straight line from collarbone to collarbone and across her back. She realises that the fur has a double layer and raises her eyebrow inquisitively.

 

“A concealed hood, see?” Sansa explains, demonstrating, lifting the top layer fur so the material unfurls and can cover Arya’s head properly. 

 

* * *

 

 

The sisters watch, hidden in the thick trees of the Wolfswood, Nymeria and Dawn at their sides, as in the clearing the Lords of the Vale, of the North, and the Dragon Queen’s supporters stake their banners in the ground, demarcating the arena. The Mormonts are the traditional Marshals of the North, but due to the particular identity of the Dragon Queen’s champion, Lyanna Mormont asked Alys Karstark and Ned Umber to serve as marshals with her. They stand on the edge’s of the arena, each in front of the duel-drums, swords in hand, pointing towards the snowy earth. 

 

Daenerys is on one side of the clearing with Ser Jorah and Tyrion and Missandei, and her dragon surrounded by the dire-beast pack behind. Jon, too stands on the same side with Brienne, Tormund and Sandor at his. 

 

“Sansa?” Arya shifts in her saddle. 

 

“Not yet,” Sansa replies, fingering the raven parchment in her hand. “Let them settle; Lyanna will call the command for any last arguments soon enough, and then we make our entrance.”

 

As Sansa predicts, it does not take long for a tense, anticipatory hush to fall on the clearing, and then Lyanna raises her arm high, before letting it fall and beginning to drum. 

 

It is a complicated rhythm, one that stirs Sansa and Arya’s icy Northern blood, and makes their horses prance around in anticipation. Arya watches her sister’s face, waits for her to make her move. Sansa has a keenly honed sense of theatre, she knows. 

 

The rhythm of the drums shift to something more insistent, and Sansa touches her heels to her destrier. The horse responds immediately, bounding into a flying canter, and as Arya follows, as they ride the short distance on the path and come bursting into the clearing just as the drums fall silent, she can only marvel at Sansa’s impeccable sense of timing as well as at the incredible picture they must make.

 

The Stark sisters cantering triumphantly in, on their proud white horses, embroidered cloaks flapping in the wind, circlets of weirwood white and red and blue winter roses on their heads, direwolves loping at their heels.

 

“Forgive me, my King, my Lord of the North and the Vale,” Sansa says in a voice as clear as ringing bells, carrying all the authority of the Heart of the North, “I bring welcome news.”

 

“Can we not simply get on with this farce?” Daenerys interjects.

 

“Lady Marshal Mormont,” Sansa says, keeping her eyes on the Dragon Queen, “is it not correct, that according to the Northern laws of the Champions’ Duel, business may be brought before the King until the fifth drum sequence? I could be mistaken, of course, but by my count you have only played the first two thus far.”

 

“Aye, Lady Stark.”

 

“Well then,” Sansa replies tersely. “By your leave, my King?”

 

Jon makes a gesture of assent, and Sansa raises in her right hand a piece of parchment as she sets her horse into another canter around the arena, so all the lords and the Dragon Queen are able to see the truth of her words. 

 

“Not half an hour ago, I received this raven from Riverrun.” Sansa continues, and Arya can clearly see the exhilarated triumph on her sister’s face. “The siege is lifted, and House Tully and the Riverlands have declared for House Stark and the North.” Sansa halts elegantly in front of Jon, her hand still held high for all to see. “I bring you, not only another alliance, but a pledge of fealty, my King,” Sansa declares, handing the raven parchment to her brother.

 

“Thank you.” Jon nods, before continuing in a more conversational tone. “It occurs to me that this seems quite the auspicious occasion to reward our most loyal bannermen. Sansa, I recall you had some thoughts on the matter.”

 

“Indeed.” Sansa agrees. “Lord Manderly, step forward.” The stalwart of the North’s bannermen bows to his King and the Lady of Winterfell. “House Stark names you Master of Ships.”

 

“Your honour me, my King, my Lady.”

 

Thus, Lyanna Mormont is named Mistress of Laws, and Lord Royce Master of Cavalry, before Sansa calls in her clear voice, “Lord Petyr Baelish. Step forward.”

 

Sansa wants to wipe the smug, smarmy grin off the man’s face, but cautions herself, once more, to patience. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Arya has cantered to the opposite side of the arena, with Nymeria by her side. 

 

“Lord Petyr Baelish, you stand accused of murder and treason. How do you plead?”

 

In the stunned, shocked silence that follows, Sansa touches her heels lightly to her mount’s flanks and the destrier springs forward into a canter once more, and out of the corner of her eye she sees Arya do the same, and suddenly they are circling him like prey.

 

“My sister asked you a question,” Arya says, her voice soft and deadly.

 

“Lady Sansa, forgive me. I’m a bit confused-”

 

“Which charges confuse you?” Sansa replies mildly, as slowly begins to tighten her circle. “Let’s start with the simplest ones,” she declares. “You murdered our aunt, Lysa Arryn. You pushed her through the moon door - do you deny it? You murdered my little cousin Robin Arryn by increasing his dosage of _sweetsleep_ over several months; do you deny it?”

 

“I did it to protect you.”

 

“You did it to take power in the Vale,” Sansa corrects. “Before that, you conspired to murder Jon Arryn, Lord of the Vale. You gave Lysa Tears of Lys to poison him; do you deny it?”

 

Lord Baelish tilts his head, his tone one of supreme condescension. “Whatever your aunt might have told you… she was a troubled woman.” He turns slightly, addressing their audience. “She imagined enemies everywhere-”

 

“You had Aunt Lysa send a letter to our parents telling them it was the Lannisters who poisoned Jon Arryn; when, in fact, the real culprit was you, Lord Baelish. The conflict between the Houses of Stark and Lannister was started by you; do you deny it?” Sansa’s voice is even, though a thread of vehemence runs through it.

 

“I know of no such letter,” Lord Baelish disagrees.

 

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister and Joffrey Baratheon to murder our father Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell and Warden of the North.” She declares, cutting him off. She _knows_ the importance of momentum, of keeping her audience on side. _She_ controls this trial; she must keep said control, and part of her ruthlessly taps down the vicious satisfaction she feels. Littlefinger shall meet the end he deserves, at last. But she knows she must tread carefully; this is a delicate, intricate series of manipulations. “Your treachery imprisoned him and caused him to be executed on false charges of treason. Do you deny it?”

 

“I deny it! None of you were there to see what happened. None of you knows the truth.” He turns towards the Lords of the Vale, and Sansa lets him, widening her circle. She lets him believe he will be able to talk his way out of this. Only when he is exactly where she wants him does she use the fact that she is cantering about on a horse to force him back and away from any potential allies. Arya, now, is out of Lord Baelish’s line of sight, on the opposing side, cantering in front of Jon and the Dragon Queen, and Sansa’s little sister takes her turn at the tilt. 

 

“You held a knife to his throat.” Arya’s voice is as deadly as she is. 

 

“You said, _I did warn you not to trust me._ ” Sansa continues her sister’s exposition, not letting him speak, and the two sisters close the circle in.

 

_“_ You told our mother that this knife belonged to Tyrion Lannister, but that was another of your lies.” She draws the Valyrian steel from her waist, spinning it in her hand. 

 

 “The knife was yours.” Sansa delivers the final blow with a triumphant gleam in her eyes. Lord Baelish’s discombobulation would have been amusing in any other situation, but now it merely brings a sardonic smirk to her face. 

 

“How… I…”

 

“Do you know what the funny thing about being a warg is, Lord Baelish?” Sansa says conversationally. “It is not limited to animals, or indeed time. I am the Heart of the North; the lifeblood of the North flows in my veins. My brother Bran might be slain, but have you forgotten where? As he lay dying, his blood fed the life of that heart tree. You might have your network of little bird spies, Lord Baelish, but we Starks have the Weirwood trees.” 

 

“Those stories, those legends you were told as a child about the Old Gods,” Arya hisses gleefully, “about the Trees and skinchangers; they’re all, every single one of them, true. That is how.” 

 

“Lady Sansa, I have known you since you were a girl. I have protected you-”

 

“Protected me!” Sansa scoffs incredulously. “By selling me to the Boltons as you would a fine piece of horseflesh?”

 

“If we could speak alone,” he entreats, “I can explain everything.” 

 

“Sometimes when I’m trying to understand a person’s motives I play a little game. I assume the worst. What is the worst reason you have for turning me against my siblings?” Sansa can see the realisation dawning on his face as she uses his own words against him, and before he can speak, Arya once again takes up the thread.

 

 “That _is_ what you do, is it not? What you have always done - turn family against family, sister against sister. That is what you did to our mother and Aunt Lysa and that is what you attempted to do to us.”

 

“Sansa, please,”

 

“I’m a slow learner, I know. But I do learn.” 

 

“Give me a chance to defend myself - I deserve that, at least.”

 

“A trial by combat - what a simply stupendously _splendid_ idea, Lord Baelish.” Sansa declares grandly, sardonically. “The marshals are ready and waiting. Whoever shall your champion be?”

 

“I am Lord Protector of the Vale and I command you to escort me safely back to the Eyrie, Lord Royce.” However much he tries, he cannot summon the unctuous authority in his tone that he has so long commanded, and Sansa suppresses a vicious smile. 

 

“I think not.” And now Sansa does smile; her confidence in Lord Royce’s honour, and that of the other lords of the Vale, has indeed been vindicated.

 

“It appears you shall not have your trial by combat after all, Lord Baelish. You have no champion.”

 

Baelish falls to his knees, and tears that Sansa knows are false begin to fall from his eyes. “Sansa, I beg you. I loved your mother since I was a boy-”

 

“And yet you betrayed her.” She cuts him off coldly.

 

“I loved you. More than anyone.”

 

“And yet you betrayed me.” She holds his gaze, seeing the minute shift in his expression when he realises she remains unmoved. “When you brought me back to Winterfell, you told me: _there’s no justice in this world, not unless we make it ourselves._ You were fool enough to think that I would want to wed _you,_ after you sold me to the Boltons. _”_

 

She canters on, allowing the moment of silence, before sweeping her right arm out and grandly addressing the assembled. It is time to seem magnanimous; time to use her own fury to stoke that of her people against him.

 

“My Lords of the North and of the Vale, I give you your traitor! I give you your murderer. You have your evidence; I call him guilty on all charges; what say you, my lords?” She raises her voice with every declaration she makes, building the momentum as she urges her horse from a canter into a gallop.  “What say you?” She calls, fierce exultation written all over her; from her voice to the proud way she sits on her destrier to her grand, sweeping gestures as she pirouettes her horse to a halt. 

 

“Death!” The call rises from the assembled lords. “Death! Death for the traitor!”

 

Only now does she glance over at Jon, and at his slight inclination of his head, she intones solemnly, clearly.

 

“Then, for your crimes against the Houses Arryn, Tully and Stark, for your crimes against the Vale, the Riverlands and the North, I, Sansa of House Stark, Lady of Winterfell and the Heart of the North, sentence you to die in the name of King Jon of House Stark, the King in the North. Have you any last words?”

 

“Sansa, please!”

 

“My lords of the North and of the Vale,” she continues, entirely indifferent to these final, false, snivelling pleas, “my father Lord Eddard always said, _the man who passes the sentence swings the sword._ Well, my lords, I am no man and I have no sword, but I shall do the same.”

 

With a brief glance at her saddle, to make sure the hidden straps that protect her when she wargs are still tight, she reaches along her bond with her direwolf.

 

Nymeria snarls, prowling at Baelish’s back, and Arya next to her has drawn Needle, cutting off any chance of escape.

 

Dawn-Sansa relishes the moment, letting the assembly see the change in her eyes, lingering for the sake of intimidation for a heartbeat on the Dragon Queen before stalking towards Baelish, slowly at first, growling and snarling, then gaining momentum as he scrambles away from her, the fear on his face, the wide eyes and thundering pulse beating in his jugular, and it warms the cockles of her heart. 

 

One last flying leap and Dawn-Sansa tears out his throat, blood welling in her mouth, staining her fangs, as Littlefinger’s body goes limp.

 

In the silence that follows, Sansa flies back along the bond into her own body. She turns to Daenerys and Jon, grimaces and spits the blood from her mouth,  face twisting at the foul taste, enjoying the stunned look on their faces, before staring coldly down at the corpse from horseback. 

 

“Get this pathetic piece of filth away from me,” she snaps disdainfully, and half of the dire-pack, Dawn and Nymeria included, drag the body away into the woods, tearing it to pieces as they go, streaking the white snow with blood.

 

“Lady Marshal Mormont,” she declares, sweeping her arm, “the floor is yours.”

 

Only then does she pirouette her horse around, dismounting and coming to stand between Jon and Tyrion, as Arya does the same on Jon’s other side. 

 

As the drums begin to roll the third sequence, she turns her head to Tyrion and gestures at the little table next to him which holds a wine decanter and goblets.

 

“May I?” She gestures. “I need to wash that disgusting taste from my mouth.” 

 

As Tyrion nods, slightly dazed, and she pours herself a glass, draining it in one go, before pouring herself another, she feels the Dragon Queen’s eyes on her. 

 

“You mean to say that was really Lord Baelish’s blood you spat out?”

 

“Of course it was,” she replies to the Targaeryen. “I’m a warg.” She shrugs nonchalantly, elegantly, and turns her attention back to Tyrion.

 

“Well, my lady,” he says quietly, looking out at the arena as Jon and Ser Jorah take off their cloaks, for all the world entirely focused on the duel instead of his conversation with Sansa. “That was a masterful display indeed.”

 

“I thank you,” she replies, imitating him, keeping her gaze focused on the arena. “No, truly I do. Who do you suppose I learnt it from?”

 

“Well, we Lannisters are renowned for our theatre,” he answers, amused, and is rewarded with an enigmatic smile from the Lady of Winterfell.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there we go! Please do tell me what you thought of it!
> 
> I - I based Sansa's 'I am no man and I have no sword, but I shall do the same' on Elizabeth I's Speech at Tilbury (the scene is really well done in the Cate Blanchett film - check it out). Actually Elizabeth I is a major all-time inspiration for my version of Sansa.
> 
> II - the warg/Tree thing was the only way I could find to write in the Three Eyed Raven/Bran storyline even after killing Bran off; I hope it didn't seem too contrived.

**Author's Note:**

> do let me know what you thought!


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